October 2005 Archives

If things tend to be closed during Ramadan and things tend to be closed Sundays, what happens when you put the two together?

If things tend to be closed during Ramadan and things tend to be closed Sundays, what happens when you put the two together? We woke up and had breakfast at the hotel and then walked to the beach. On the path we spotted a snake which Geoff was very excited about - only the second one he's ever seen "in the wild". Unfortunately, despite his looking for it every subsequent time we went out there, we never did see one again. On the beach, there were camel, horseback and 4-wheel drive rides, but no water sports.

After loafing around for the day, we decided to head into the big city of Tunis despite the fact that we didn't expect anything to be open. The taxi cost us only nine dinars - half as much for twice the distance of the airport. The centre touristique of the city had modern buildings - many of them clearly French inspired. We took a table at the only open café and had some tea. Served piping hot in tiny glass shot glasses, the traditional tea was thickly sweetened and topped with fresh mint leaves.

After that we decided to brave the Medina, a narrow maze of streets from the original walled city. Some of the handicrafts in the souks, or shops, have been made in the same location for over 1,000 years. But as we walked through, the few open stalls sold junk - knickknacks, tacky purses, loose underwear and socks, bland shoes, and piles of jeans. Looked pretty much like Chinatown in NY which is one of my least favorite places. Inevitably someone sneezes on me there and someone I'm with ends up overpaying for some piece of junk. I'll never forget the time our 10-year-old nephew Cameron bought a faux gold chain scorpion for $5. I'm pretty sure the actual value was in the negative numbers - it predictably broke a few hours later.

Anyway, we made our way all the way across by 5:30 pm and figured we should walk back to the tourist section before it got dark. But what we found on our way back was one of my favorite moments. The sun had officially set, marked by the evening prayers sung out over the megaphone atop the Medina's mosque. As we walked back through the Medina, we now found groups of mostly 3-4 men spread around makeshift tables eating, presumably their first meal since the day's fasting began at sunrise. Most of them greeted us as we passed and one group even invited us to join which we kindly declined. It clearly wasn't a good time to shop, but it was my favorite moment in the Medina. To see the men hunched over steaming bowls of soup silently eating in unison through the city was fascinating.

After that we wound up checking out the train station hoping to pick up a schedule for Douz where we hoped to go later in the week. Since all the signs and schedules were in Arabic, we didn't get far. An opportunistic taxi driver found us there and asked us where we wanted to go which started an amusing conversation in French. He wanted to know where we were from and started guessing - Spanish? Italian? We would find that this was the same pattern with everyone we met guessing our nationality. Not once did anyone ever guess American. Geoff was hesitant to admit it, but throughout Tunisia I would be compelled to admit to anyone who asked that I was an American. It seemed wrong to lie - both because I thought it was terrible to have to lie about where you were from and also because I thought we had some responsibility in some small way maybe change the impression of Americans. This driver reacted the way everyone would - he said that we were welcome and that all people were the same. Of course, he probably would have charged us 40 dinars to drive home, but that's another story.

We decided to have dinner in the tourist area but unfortunately most of the places were closed so we found a local hangout and had a decent, dirt cheap dinner. By the time we left, the streets were brimming with locals. Hundreds of people filled the streets, stores and cafés.

The men walk arm-in-arm and sometimes hold hands. They also kiss four times cheek to cheek when they meet. Many of the women dress with robes and full headscarves so that only their faces and hands show. Apparently this prevents temptation by the men. I thought about how in US suburbs women often inflict this amorphous look on themselves by wearing tee shirts and baggy sweats. The Tunisian women all have similar features - dark hair, dark eyes. It's a striking sight to spot a blond among the crowds. I once saw a Tunisian man run up and kiss a little blond girl walking with her parents. The little girl wiped off his kiss and the mother just smiled. It didn't seem he meant any harm by it, he just couldn't resist.

We decided to walk back through the Medina now that there was a chance things were open. Turns out more was open, but it was more of the same crap. There were so many people you had to push your way through. Then someone in the crowds took the opportunity to grab my ass, of course it was impossible to determine who. I now hated this place. Geoff seemed convinced that there must still be treasures to find so we made one last effort and found the jewelry souks, saw some rugs and found one of the shops listed in the book. As I browsed around I had a very persistent sales guy following me, showing me a picture of his new baby, and babbling about the features of the products. Meanwhile, Geoff spent some time with the men in the shop who were sitting around what looked like a giant bong, although they were very clear that it was filled with tobacco not hashish. One of them men there could speak English so Geoff talked to him about the U.S. and politics. We then selected some things to buy. For some reason Geoff was in charge of the haggling, a cultural necessity in the souks. When the man told him ten dinars Geoff actually said "Are you sure? That's all?" I couldn't believe my ears, he actually sounded like he was trying to talk them up in price.

Located between Algeria and Libya, Tunisia doesn't sound like it should be a friendly, peaceful country. But we had decided on a brief beach getaway, and discovered it was a popular destination for the French for a few reasons - 1) It's only a 2 hour flight. 2) It's a tropical climate. 3) They speak French.

Before this trip, my mind's image of Africa was indigenous bushmen, rainforests and jungles, elephants and tigers. In Tunisia, we would find none of these things. But perhaps we would discover something even better.

Approximately 98 percent of Tunisia's population is devout Muslims. Their native language is Arabic, but the business language is French, having only been liberated from France a few decades ago. We arrived at the end of Ramadan, a monthlong religious fasting which is one of the five pillars of Islam.

When we first stepped out of the airport, the palm trees and sunshine conjured up my mind's images of any warm place - Florida, Mexico, California. We walked over to the 'official' taxi stand after dodging several shady characters offering us a ride. Since there were two rival companies at the stand, members from each immediately swarmed around Geoff trying to grab his bags and arguing with each other over this clearly prized customer. Such staunch competition could only mean we were about to get a great deal or a terrible one. Maybe you can already guess what was in store for us?

The police broke up the argument, and we got in one of the cabs. We had read in Lonely Planet that you should agree on the price before getting into the taxi. Of course, the driver had already sped off with us in tow when we were informed that the price was 20 dinars. The book had said 10 - so I argued the price. He turned on the meter which I suppose was a start. Although we had no way of knowing he would take the most direct route. Anyway, it was fun to debate in French. He also told us all about Ramadan and the customs of locals. I found it especially amusing that even though he was ripping us off, it really was in the friendliest way possible. Once we arrived at the hotel the meter said 17 but Geoff still gave him 20. Leave it to Geoff to reward someone for swindling us.

We were welcomed at the hotel with a sweet fruit juice - perhaps mango? The main lobby of the Corinthia Khamsa in Gammarth was a room with soaring ceilings and dozens of gold and ruby couches arranged in mini sitting areas. The room was even better - tile floors, modern bathroom and terrace with an ocean view. There were only two things we would discover were a bit odd about the hotel. The first was the electricity seemed to go off regularly. One day we went back to the room after a swim and found the electricity off. So I took a candlelit shower (wisely, they kept candles in room). Even stranger, the first morning we awoke to the cleaning woman walking in without knocking. And after my candlelit shower, I was startled while I was standing there (luckily) in my towel, as another maid entered without knocking and handed me some more towels. We learned to use the "do not disturb" sign.

At first we felt somewhat stranded at the hotel. Especially Geoff who at this point was wishing we had stayed in the city so we were closer to the 'action.' That night we were ready to head out at about 5:30 but that was sunset and every Muslim was eating their first meal since 5AM. So the hotel staff wasn't too confident in us getting a cab, but one did eventually come. We had wanted to go to the coastal town Sidi Bou Saïd, but our driver informed us that everything would be closed for Ramadan. He also said that the locals don't eat out at restaurants. I wasn't sure later if he meant just in that town or just during Ramadan. Most of my conversations in French left unanswered questions like these. Anyway, we went to the town anyway figuring at worst we could get a cab at one of the nearby hotels.

Our driver dropped us off on a hillside of cobblestone streets filled with the trademark white buildings and blue doors of Sidi Bou Saïd. Only a few people were walking around and hardly anyone sat at the only open café. Amazingly, we found the restaurant Geoff had picked. We ordered mostly Tunisian specialties. We both got couscous but the lamb was fatty, and Geoff aptly described the couscous as wet breadcrumbs. The best part was the 'brick' a thin, fried pastry with an egg in the middle. For dessert, we ordered the Tunisian pastries - a plate of tasty cookies, although we joked that they were really all the same nut cookie with different toppings - powdered sugar, honey, or pine nuts - in varying shapes to appear unique.

After dinner, a few locals were out - especially packs of young women together walking and some men now hanging out drinking tea at the local café. It still was hard to imagine this as a touristy town - but then again Ramadan in November is not the high season. Even more surprising was during the cab ride home suddenly the streets were teeming with life - little convenience stores had sprung open and dozens of cafés overflowed with men of all ages drinking and smoking.

On our way back to the hotel, our driver got stopped by the national police. We waited in the car for about 15 minutes while our driver sighed. When we asked him what was happening, he rattled off something about controle. I was surprised to see how annoyed he was since I had assumed everyone in Tunisia would be patriotic, religious and compliant. In Tunisia, president Ben Ali, whose picture we would find in every hotel, restaurant and hole-in-the-wall café, has presided over the country since 1987 and is 'elected' regularly by 99 percent of the voters. [See his picture: http://www.cst.rnu.tn/images/presentation/president.jpg] So patriotism isn't much of an option. Of course as annoyed as he was, he complied and waited. After they finally let us go, the meter had run up quite a bit. When we arrived at the hotel, the driver, apologetic for the delay, drastically reduced the price. Of course, Geoff gave him a generous tip all the same.

For the first time since we had arrived in Paris, we woke up before the sunrise. At 6:30 am Saturday morning, we woke, gathered our stuff, and headed for the train to Strasbourg. We had purchased our tickets online in advance so we could pick them up at the station's automatic ticket machines. Of course, when we got there, the machines didn't work, which forced us into waiting in a not very long but unbelievably slow line. With a half hour to spare, I didn't start out concerned. But when the first person of six took 10 minutes, I calculated that making our train seemed highly unlikely.

These were the moments that I wished later I would have just relaxed and been the type of person who thought, "this train, next train, ah who cares?" Unfortunately, I instead paced in my two by two square, tapped my foot and did a lot of sighing. After all that, we picked up our tickets at the counter, ran to the track and hopped aboard our train with about 30 seconds to spare. By then I was quite tense and now Geoff started frowning because our 'relaxing' trip was obviously anything but.

Over the course of the four hour train ride, we unwound. Luckily, the Hôtel Monopole Métropole (http://www.bestwestern-monopole.com/) was a short walk from the train so this trip would be car-free. We dropped off our stuff, and immediately headed for lunch. Geoff had picked out three winstubs (wine restaurants) which was fortunate since the first one was booked and the second one closed.

It suddenly occurred to me that I no longer rehearsed my lines before walking into a store or restaurant. It wasn't that I was so confident that I would understand or be understood. My language skills had certainly been improving. But it was mostly just an attitude change. And anyway, signs and menus in Strasbourg mostly featured French, German and English - probably due to the large number of foreign visitors.

So we sauntered into the third restaurant and requested a table. They sat us at a four person table and Geoff thought it would be more romantic for us to sit side-by-side which we did. After about 30 minutes of waiting for them to take our order, we realized that they thought we were waiting for another pair of friends to sit across from us. So we flagged down the waiter to tell him that we were ready to order. I'm not sure if he thought we had given up on our imaginary friends or realized they never existed, but food was on the way so I was happy.

Directly across the border from Germany, Strasbourg's cuisine was more Alsatian than French. Of course, we opted to try the regional specialties. We chose an onion tart to share which was a thick, delicious slice of an almost quiche-like pie filled with tasty onions. For the main dish, I ate a small chicken with spaetzle (which reminded me a bit of matzo brea) and Geoff had choucroute (plate of sausages) with the freshest horseradish I have ever tasted. A house Riesling accompanied the meal quite perfectly.

After a meal like that, we were of course in a delightful mood and walked around the city and paused for quite awhile to gaze up at the intricately Gothic pink sandstone Cathédrale Notre Dame in the city center. Strasbourg appeared to be an incredibly civilized affluent city, not surprising considering it housed the European Parliament and the Council of Europe. This was accentuated by a large number of pedestrian-only streets and efficient quiet modern above-ground trams. The German Rhine running through the center reflected off the lovely architecture, also a melding of French and German. We wove across bridges and took some pictures. Then we found a park to rest in and watched a couple playing ping pong - a strange sport for the outdoors.

That night we decided to go for a light dinner in anticipation of the next day's three-star lunch to come. So we picked a beerstub in the town center and ordered some Flammenkueche, a thin pizza, and quiche lorraine - both regional specialties which we accompanied with some Heineken (produced locally). There was nothing incredibly life-changing there, just a simple tasty dinner. The best part perhaps was that we could eat outside on such a wonderfully crisp night.

The next morning we skipped breakfast knowing that we were in for a treat. We found the Michelin three-star Buerehiesel to be a charming house in the middle of the parc de l'Orangerie by the European Parliament. As would be expected, we were greeted with pleasantries before we even walked through the front door. We spoke only in French and, despite our grammatical errors and poor accent, they replied the same. The dining room looked open air due to the number of windows looking onto the surrounding park. The menu overwhelmed me a bit so I was relieved we decided on the tasting menu with accompanying wines - definitely the simplest choice. Each course that came out stunned us, but the appetizers were definitely the stars of the show. We had an assortment of amuse bouche - an Asian-inspired dumpling and beet topped with goat cheese - followed by scallops that simply melted in our mouths and crispy frog legs (which I thought was fish until Geoff informed me after I had happily gobbled up the last one).

We had a bit of an embarrassing situation at the end of the meal. Geoff paid in cash but we needed to break a 50 euro bill. I was positive that if he left it that they would bring us the change. I mean, in every restaurant, brasserie or café we would leave a small tip and not once did they ever assume anything left was for them unless it was left on the table after we left. So I figured clearly they wouldn't assume we were leaving them such an insane tip especially considering the tip was already included in the meal. But the 50 never returned. Too embarrassed to do anything, Geoff figured it was as good as gone. But I wouldn't have it, so I made an ass of myself (or them depending on your perspective) and tried to explain we needed change for a 50. Of course, it was always in these situations where language failed me, exacerbating the situation. It was an unfortunate ending to an absolutely wonderful meal. But no matter, we were blissful and after the half dozen glasses of wine each we left but didn't make it much farther than parc de l'Orangerie where we lay on the grass in the sunshine for at least an hour. Life was good.

Originally, Geoff and I had arranged for both our classes to be at 4 pm so that we could come and go together, even if we weren't actually in the same class. At L'Alliance Française, a new session began every month. So even though you might continue at the same time with the same teacher, technically it was a new class. Unfortunately this became clearer to me on the first day of my October class, when I learned that mine had been cancelled. Not enough of the students had renewed for that time slot. So the three of us who had registered were led down to the office to come up with a solution. After going through the options and deliberating, we all unfortunately ended up in different classes. The Japanese student Kiyoko took the 10:45 class, the girl from Mexico took the last slot at 1 pm, and I registered for the 6 pm. After entertaining myself with French audio in the media library, I met Geoff outside after his class. Talking it over with him, I realized the 6 pm class was a poor choice since we often wanted to have dinner or spend time together after work hours. So I agreed to go first thing in the morning to change to the 10:45 am class, which I did.

What I had originally loved about L'Alliance Française was that the class was relatively small (8 or so students) and it emphasized conversation, which was where I needed the most practice. So I was quite disappointed when I discovered that the 10:45 class (level 202) overflowed with students (18) and lacked conversation. Crushed, I went home and began researching other schools. But none seemed much better, and I would need more time to explore the options. Since I had loved my class last month, I thought maybe it's just a matter of finding another class at the same school. I thought maybe if I switch to the 4-hour/day class (versus 2-hour), there would be less students. I also thought that maybe, just maybe, they'd allow me to skip to the next level (203) if that had less students. If neither of those worked, I would reduce my registration from one month to two weeks so I had time to investigate other schools.

So that evening, I went back to the school to change my class, yet again. At registration, they only speak French to the students - which I found amusing since some students are there because they don't actually know French yet. Anyhow, I planned out my pitch but knew I would have to think on my feet. When it was my turn, I went and argued my case in French. The class has too many students, I said. She said that number was normal for their classes. I explained that there was no time for conversation with so many students and I won't learn that way. She asked if I spoke to the teacher. I said, yes, and she said there would be some conversation, but I don't want to stay in this class, it's too easy. Perhaps I can change to level 203? I let my question hang in the air.

She seemed to think about it a minute, and then looked on her computer at the classes available for level 203. There was 203 class at 1 pm class with only 11 students, how would that be, she asked. Perfect, I replied.
I still didn't know if I would like the class, and I wasn't sure how many times they would allow me to switch. And now I was also nervous it might be too hard. But I figured, I was only really skipping a month of classes, and how much do you really learn in a month anyway, right? Then again, I thought of how much I had progressed in only two weeks.

Thursday was actually the third day of the course, but it was my first day. Luckily, it turned out I had only missed one class since the first day had been cancelled on account of the strike. My new teacher, a thin perky 40-something Parisian, was all energy. She would dive across the room from person to person to hear what they were saying. Apparently, most of my classmates and I, perhaps in fear of stumbling on our words, tended to mumble a bit. She was a whirlwind, running from student to student, jotting things down on the blackboard and jabbering away in French the whole time. She had a wonderful way of making sure everyone in the room spoke at least a little. After about a half hour in the class it occurred to me that I understood everything that she was saying in French perfectly and I was shocked. Strangely, that realization suddenly made it more difficult for me to understand, as if it could only work if I weren't thinking about it. When I relaxed again, the words started flowing through again.

I still thought in English. On occasion I dreamt in French, but only sometimes was I sure that it was actually grammatically correct French and not just random phrases and words strung together into a meaningless riddle. The problem with thinking in English was that everything needed to be translated in my head for me to understand. I had realized something important about learning a language. The only reason that I could read better than I could converse was not because of the difference between hearing and reading, but because of speed. My processing time was still a bit too slow for most conversations. It could only work if it were simple enough, slow enough, or in context, as in a restaurant. If someone approached me hurriedly on the street and asked me a question, I would have no clue what they said. When I read, I could read extremely slowly. But no one, especially the French, spoke that slowly.

Anyway, I was thrilled. My new class was small, all women and full of vibrant conversation. I even learned a new verb tense that day - the future anterior. Plus, I had skipped a grade and it looked like I would be able to keep up just fine. The grammar didn't pose any problem, and I was not the best speaker in the class, but I definitely wasn't the worst. It was a great day. I knew right then that I would be learning a lot in the next month.

There are many stereotypes of the French, one of which is that they are constantly going on strike. For this reason, I was quite excited to witness the national strike day scheduled for October 4. I had expected traffic, transportation and services of all kinds to come to a screeching halt. It wasn't just because of France's infamy that I thought this, it was also because of the local anticipation and preparation for this upcoming strike. Sylvia had warned us about it weeks earlier and advised us to wear sneakers that day instead of relying on public transportation. Our housekeeper Andrea had switched her cleaning day from Tuesday to Monday so she would avoid travelling during the strike. And L'Alliance Francaise had signs posted that classes may or may not occur that day, presumably depending equally on transportation issues and the political persuasation of the teacher.

Geoff and I had taken to watching the news at 8 pm each night to practice hearing French. Our comprehension wasn't too good; it was lucky they had pictures. The night before, I watched in anticipation of the strike to see what would be said (or shown). They posted some statistics of the RER and metro lines with percentages (20-30%), but it wasn't clear to me whether that was the number they expected would be running or striking.
The day of the strike, we walked to school aiming to avoid the metro. After class, we had plans to meet Geoff's colleagues Noel, Patrice and Dolf for dinner. We picked up a box of chocolates for Noel since we were meeting at his apartment. Geoff had mapped out a route to walk there, but it turned out to be farther than we expected. Plus, Geoff had pulled something in his foot and after a 20 minute walk, he was slowing down. So when we found a metro station, and figured it was worth a shot. Our tickets were accepted and we hopped on a train easily. In fact, it was just as quick but much less crowded than usual.

Noel had told us to come over between 7:30 and 8 pm and it was nearing the latter. I wasn't too concerned because we had learned that when the French say a time, they usually mean later. Geoff fit in perfectly with this concept of time. At a bit after 8 pm, we finally arrived at Noel's apartment. Geoff typed in the code for the outside door to unlock it and we climbed the stairs up to his apartment and rung the bell. A woman answered the door. She squinted unfamiliarly at us a bit, clearly surprised to see us. For a moment I wondered if we were in the wrong apartment. But she was motioning us in, so maybe not. Geoff rattled off something - and the name Noel definitely rang a bell with her. Turned out, it was Noel's wife but she had expected us to arrive with him or at least after him. We had as well. Of course, he was running late, which I figured could be blamed either on the strike or the fact that he operated on typical French time. I had a feeling it was the latter.

Within minutes, we had a variety of savory snacks set before us and Geoff was uncorking a bottle of Veuve Cliquot. Noel's wife, Francoise, an unprententious friendly woman in her 40s, sat down and talked with us. Her English was about as good as my French so for a bit we switched to French. Geoff seemed impressed that I was able to carry on an effective conversation. I had decided it was my favorite thing to talk to French people who couldn't speak English well. I was less embarrassed about all the mistakes I was surely making.

We also spoke with Noel's older daughter who spoke English perfectly well and corrected her mother on proper verb tenses and once on the term 'fast food'. Within about a half hour, Noel and the others arrived, at which point English pervaded the room. Dolf who was Dutch spoke English perfectly, in addition to a smattering of other languages, but not French. We got a tour of Noel's apartment which was the result of the merging of three apartments which he had bought over time. It was a typical Paris apartment with soaring windows, wood floors and French furnishings and fabrics. In New York, they call these apartments "pre-war." Perhaps they say the same here, although they would be referring to the French Revolutionary War in the late 17oos. After the tour we polished off the second bottle of champagne, and headed out for dinner. Noel invited his wife, but she declined, preferring to stay home with her daughters. So the rest of us piled into Noel's car which amusingly was an enormous four wheel drive American car. A few minutes later, he pulled into a spot across the street from the restaurant. Geoff pointed out that the sign seemed to be indicating that it was a handicapped space. No, Noel corrected, it was just the crosswalk. He didn't seem concerned about the possibility of getting a ticket or being towed.

Only a handful of tables at the neighborhood bistro held diners, which amused Noel who had called for a reservation to ensure us a place. At this point, it neared 10 pm and the end of French national dinnertime. Noel and Patrice teased Geoff and I about needing English menus, which we refused. To prove the point, Geoff entertained everyone by translating everything on the menu (he's quite good with food words), and in fact even explained some of the dishes' cooking methods in ways that even the French natives couldn't articlulate. Patrice ordered a steak medium and the waitress turned to Geoff. Everyone seemed poised to hear Geoff's order in French. Would the words come out as well as his translations? "Le meme chose" was all he said, meaning "the same thing" which cracked everyone up, even the waitress. Geoff smiled, but defended his choice, saying that was really what he wanted. We drank some wine and talked until our dishes arrived on wooden boards featuring a perfectly balanced meal of meat, potatoes and salad. I ordered lamb chops and the meal was quite tasty especially considering it only cost 16 euros.

During dinner, I took the opportunity to clear up a few phrases that had baffled me over the past few weeks. The first one that perplexed me was the difference between "J'ai compris" (I understood) and "Je comprend" (I understand). In English, these were relatively interchangeable. Fortunately, I learned the same was true in French. Ok, what about "J'ai fini" and "Je suis fini" - I've finished vs. I'm finished? I used these interchangeably at the end of meals, as I would in English. But I wasn't sure it was right. In this case, Patrice informed me, there was quite a big difference. "J'ai fini" meant that you had finished your meal whereas ""Je suis fini" meant that you were done for. So basically I had inadvertently been saying to waiters all over Paris that their meals had nearly killed me.

I also wanted to learn the proper way to say "nice to meet you." It seemed I constantly met new people, and when it came time to leave I was somewhat tongue-tied. I had looked up some expressions, but they all seemed so formal to me. I wanted to know what a local would actually say. But they told me the French don't usually end a conversation by commenting that it was nice to meet someone. They just say au revoir and move on. In fact, Patrice informed me that if I were to make a point of saying in French to a man that it was very nice to meet him, he would take it as a come on. Well, that seems like something I should have already learned after 6 years of studying French, no?

After dinner, Noel offered to drive us home which we said wasn't necessary, but he insisted it was on the way. Without delay, we breezed home and I wondered about the strike and felt the French can do better than this, no?

I had decided to cook dinner, so I picked up a few things at the supermarket - turkey breasts (intentionally this time), brussel sprouts (Geoff's favorite), some bread, and other necessities. Geoff had cooked every meal at the apartment since we had arrived, so I thought after his hellish weekend with BuyIndies, it would be nice if I cooked. Some people had become intimidated to cook for Geoff since he went to cooking school, but not me. This was because I knew he loved almost anything homemade that he didn't have to make. At a restaurant, he's discriminating. At someone's home, he's the favorite guest.

Of course, I did have to call Geoff and ask for his advice on what to do with the brussel sprouts. I just wasn't sure if I had to boil them before baking or if I could just bake. But he said boil first. So I filled up a pot of water and turned one of the knobs on the stove. It clicked a few times but didn't light. So I tried another, but the same thing. All three gas burners did the same thing. I had seen Geoff handle this before by turning it on and lighting it with a match so I gave it a try. It lit. But after the pot was on the flame for less than a minute, it went out. I tried lighting them again, but now they would light for a second and burn out. At this point, I opened the window, figuring all the natural gas I had let into the small kitchen might cause me to pass out any minute. I resorted to calling Geoff again. He said that hadn't happened before, but that I could use the one electric burner. Perfect. I turned that on and set the pot of water on top. I also turned the oven on to pre-heat. I shaved a stale loaf of bread for some homemade crumbs and prepped the turkey breasts by dipping them in flour, then egg, then breadcrumbs. Since I only had one burner, I set them aside to cook after the brussel sprouts were done.

I went to my computer to check my email and chat with my sister Betsy for awhile. I went and checked the water about 20 minutes later but it wasn't boiling yet. I gave it another 20 minutes. It still wasn't boiling, but it looked hot - at least, I saw steam. So I decided to just put the brussel sprouts in at this point, needing to speed things along since Geoff would be home shortly. Another 20 minutes went by, and still there was no boil. At this rate, the brussel sprouts would probably be ready tomorrow morning. Geoff arrived home, amused to find I had not even gotten a pot of water to boil without his assistance. He immediately investigated the problem with the stove. Our mandated housekeeper Andrea had come to clean that afternoon and perhaps had disconnected them and not quite reconnected them. Anyway, a simple jiggling was all it took and they lit fine. Glorious. I immediately moved the pot over to a gas burner, and started heating the oil for the cutlets.

Next on the list of mysteries was why after I had pre-heated the oven for an hour was it not even lukewarm? Geoff took a quick look and reminded me that our single unit stove/dishwasher must have one half off for the other half to work. So the dishwasher can't operate if the stove is on, and vice versa. But the dishwasher isn't running, I said. Ah, but it's on, Geoff replied. A simple click of the switch, and a few minutes later the stove began to get warm. I sent him out of the kitchen because I was determined to finish without any more help.

I finished steaming the brussel sprouts and then put them in a pan with some butter and cheese and set them in the oven. In the meantime, I fried up the cutlets. That gave me no problem, but the brussel sprouts didn't seem to be getting broiled the way I expected, despite the fact that I had the oven on full blast and the dish on the top rack. It just didn't seem to be getting hot enough in there. I don't know how Geoff could roast a chicken in there but obviously he knew something I didn't. So I finally took them out and put them in our microwave/toaster oven to bake some more. The damn brussel sprouts refused to get toasty so I eventually gave up and just pulled them out. I finally got the dinner on the table which, of course for all the effort I had put in, seemed quite paltry. Some unevenly fried cutlets, a few brussel sprouts topped with random clumps of cheese and some bread and butter. But Geoff didn't disappoint. He ate it with gusto and said it was simply delicious.

I had a pounding headache; my brain felt like it might explode from trying to learn French. Usually after three weeks of being in another country, Geoff and I would head home where we could order coffee in English, understand cashiers at convenience stores and successfully listen in on other people's conversations. Of course, the fact that we still had nearly three months left in Paris thrilled us. Unfortunately, my aching head didn't agree. It was fatigued from constantly thinking through every sentence.

Then again, my headache could have been related to the fact that BuyIndies.com had ceased to take orders. For months our credit card processor software company had threatened to change servers but they never gave us an exact date. I had asked them to give me two weeks notice. Instead they gave us less than 24 hours. So Geoff had worked furiously all night, in an effort to get it working again. And it was awful to be in Paris and stuck on the computer.

The next morning, we decided to take a break for something to eat. I picked a place outside our immediate neighborhood for a change of scenery. It was a gorgeous, clear and crisp day in Paris. We crossed Ile Saint Louis to the Right Bank to Mariage Frères, which I had found in our Paris Michelin Guide. The historic tea house served a proper Saturday French brunch - moist scrambled eggs, melt-in-your-mouth brioche toast, smoked salmon with salad, and shrimp with the heads still on. We also had a choice of tea from several hundred kinds on a special menu. And of course, dessert couldn't be forgotten. The waiter had come over and rattled off some French to us, which incredibly I understood to mean that we had to go up to the display to choose our desserts. I picked what looked like an Entenmanns coffee cake. It turned out to be a tart apple cake topped with cinnamon sugar crumbles. Even better.

After brunch, we took a quick walk through a nearby department store which was packed with people. There was a sale but the prices weren't that good. I don't think I've ever seen a department store so crowded, except maybe the 34th Street Macy's around Christmas. We went to look at some knives since Geoff had wanted some better ones for the kitchen. We found it amusing that hundreds of knives were just sitting out in the open without any packaging whatsoever. As Geoff pointed out, there was a row of the adult reachable knives and then the probably sharper knee-level row of loose knives reachable by any interested three-year old. The choices overwhelmed us so we decided against buying anything.

We also looked at sheets. Our bed was really two twins put together and although Geoff had figured out how to connect the metal bracket underneath, the sheets were still separated. We thought if we could buy a king sheet set, it would feel more connected. Unfortunately there was no such thing as "king," nor twin, full or queen. Instead each sheet listed measurements in centimeters. Hmm, I had never thought to measure the bed. I also didn't know the words for fitted sheet, flat sheet, duvet cover, etc. We made some attempt to speak to a French saleswoman and successfully asked about the return policy which she explained. Remarkably I understood - they could be brought back unopened only for a refund or exchange. Just in case, we figured we should measure at home first.

After that, we decided to pick up some bread and cheese so we could just have a snack at home later without having to go out again. We headed back to the apartment, back to the computer where Geoff continued to wrestle with the site. In exchange, I offered to work on his blog. My theory was that he would feel more inspired to work on it if it looked more professional. So we got some Movable Type blog software and I started working on it.

Whenever we were working at home, we listened to the radio - usually the station called Voltage. Most radio stations have a rotation of songs they play, but this station in particular revealed itself to be on a one-hour time loop. Still, we kept listening. I think maybe they had subliminal messages. Actually, we did learn that they had several catchy songs that were actually advertisements for the station so they weren't really too subtle. Some of my favorite songs in rotation where "Wake Me Up When September Comes" and "Don't You Wish Your Girlfriend Were Hot Like Me," but there were also a bunch of mysterious French songs I liked.

The next day, the server still wasn't back up. It seemed our whole weekend would get sucked up by the BuyIndies.com abyss. Naturally, my headache persisted. Not wanting the whole weekend to be a bust we decided to go to the Rue Monge outdoor food market and pick up some things for dinner. With my head pounding, I didn't feel like speaking French so Geoff did most of the talking while I took some pictures. I did stop to pick up a small brioche loaf, though. I asked in French if a brioche was masculine or feminine. The woman working there replied, feminine. "D'accord. Une brioche," I said. She asked what language I spoke and I said English. She wanted to know how we said it in English and she thought it was funny that it was still just "brioche." Of course, ours was not a feminine brioche.

Geoff picked up a rack of lamb and some potatoes, which of course he turned into a delicious feast for us. I had found some fresh apricots and tomatoes which we just ate raw. The tomatoes were so sweet that I finally understood how they could be considered a fruit.

Fortunately in the next 24 hours, Geoff had worked out some kluge that got the server back up running and accepting orders. And pretty much simultaneously the pounding on my head completely subsided. Hmm, maybe it wasn't the French after all.