Ice Cubes and Turkish Toilets

I was standing in line for the bathrooms at the Luxemburg Gardens with my parents today after a lovely picnic and after hearing another comment about the lack of ice in France, I said, “That’s it, I’m blogging about you!”

My mother of course laughed and said, “Wow Henry, she’s really threatening us now!” The threat is especially empty for my father who is convinced that the “computer room” in their home is nothing more than a room without a TV worth watching, but still, I feel I need to follow through on my “threat”.

Let me first be entirely clear—it is a real treat to have two weeks to spend in Paris with my parents. I am lucky to have parents who I honestly consider friends and we are having a good time. My parents are also rolling with a lot of new things and doing so with a smile, or at least a nod.

This trip also continues a reasonably long history of the Plutas traveling together. As a family, we’ve left our mark on Cancun, Ecuador, Hutalco, the American West, Florida, Washington DC, plus many other US states. I am quite sure the locals are still talking about those crazy Plutas and I have no doubt that the French (and Josh for that matter) will also be talking about this “invasion” long after May 10th.

Now secondly, let me also be entirely clear about the fact that Hoosiers in Paris is just inherently a risky proposition. I knew that Paris was different from Washington, but I’ve been reminded often how REALLY different Paris is from Chesterton.

Here are just a few things that have been brought to our attention as being “different” in Paris. [and for non-midwesterners, “different” is often code for “not what I prefer”]
1. Beer, water and Coke are served chilled, but never iced
2. Our fridge is not big enough to even have a freezer with an ice cube tray
3. Coffee is strong and served in cups that “are tiny”
4. Bathrooms are rumored to have a “Turkish Toilet” in the men’s room, which seems to be causing an extreme reaction from my father (despite the fact that we haven’t actually seen one yet)
5. There are a lot of people here, all of whom speak French
6. The cars here are really, really tiny
7. Josh and I walk an extreme amount here
8. There is not enough ice in France (yes, we really talk that much about ice)

I will readily admit that their observations are right, but we are nonetheless attempting a crash course in “French Culture”

The first few days were a maze of introductions to customs, signs, and language differences. I think we can all agree through that steak-frites are a bridge across cultures and that for one shining moment, the Plutas loved France because of their ability to find a decent steak and a tasty drink for under ten euros.

History has been a saving grace. There aren’t many places on earth where you can still see a house built in 1407 within walking distance of a piece of the city wall that dates back to 1200, and for some reason, this kind of “extreme history” resonates with my parents.

My parents have also helped me learn even more about the history of France, through a few tours we have taken together, and because of the pre-trip research they did on the French Revolution. It has been really fun to share these moments of history with my mom and dad, even if we did have to find a McDonalds afterwards so we could talk about the history lessons over an iced cold coke.

We’ve also settled in a bit. They have a wonderful little studio apartment right off of my favorite market street. They too are staring to enjoy a daily coffee, even if it’s a café crème and not an espresso. I think they are coming to at least understand part of our Parisian life, even if two weeks of it will be as much as they care to enjoy.

Also in a sign of the apocalypse, my father has even started to learn French. In a constant quest for the perfect sandwich, he insisted on having Josh teach him the word for “olive oil”. It’s the only French word he knows, and he uses it a lot more often than you could possibly imagine. I can still hear Josh teaching him, in mixed French and English, to just say “Wheel dough leave.”

Tomorrow we head to Normandy, and my French teacher’s family will be taking a couple of days out of their lives to show us around (I had asked my French teacher for some ideas on what to visit in her home province in Normandy, and instead she drafted her whole family to host and facilitate our visit--so much for mean French people, huh?). I can only wonder if they actually know what is in store for them—they thought the last group of Americans visiting Normandy (in 1944) was a tough bunch. I’m sure it will be OK, though, as long as we can sit for at least a couple of hours with an iced cold beverage.

sPg