Savoring

Last night I had a dream that I was eating tete de veau et son cerveau ("head of veal, with his brains--which I have had one other time and was quite tasty). The most interesting thing to me was, in my dream, I was not surprised/displeased to be eating that dish, but I was angry at the cost—it was 30 euros!

They say that you really know a language when you begin to dream in that language. But I wonder what it means when clearly specific cultural references come into play. I was as disturbed by the menu as the fact that it was euros, not dollars, and that was in my REM sleep. Maybe it really is time to come home.

With the end of our stay nearly in view and the beginnings of actual preparations for a return to the states well underway, I find myself soaking in small interactions here again—just as I did in January 2007—and marveling at the many small ways that I've come to better understand France and its complex culture.

Today, I took the usual trip to the market for dinner things, and despite the rain that was steadily falling, I almost felt giddy with appreciation. The market was nearly empty—it was a bit before Parisians were through with work and it was rainy enough to chase any tourists away—so it felt like it was me and the vendors. I even tipped my umbrella and received a real smile from my favorite butcher.

I stopped first in the poissonnerie (fish shop) and picked out two perfect pieces of salmon for dinner, then splurging two doors up at the fromagerie for one of my favorite cheeses (fresh cheese with a fig filling), then continuing up the hill to buy my demi-baguette.

I did some version of this walk in January 2007, but now, armed with approximately 17 more words of French and a few well-learned lessons in French culture, the street has lost all of its intimidation yet kept all of its charm. Though it sounds silly, it feels like a real accomplishment, especially when I recall the literal cold sweats that greeted my first solo trip the grocery store. (http://hisandhersparigi.blogspot.com/2007/01/q-and.html)

We've started to be asked the question: are you ready to come home? Yes, is the short answer. Paris has been a dream in 1,000 ways, but its not quite home and I don't want to be an expat. I am also increasingly aware that my French doesn't cut the proverbial mustard for the long term. I am looking forward to seeing familiar faces and I'm even ready to work again. It’s a bit like the song from the TV show Cheers. "Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name and they're always glad you came." I am anxious to return to coffee with "The Girls" and having family a brief car ride or short plane ride away.

But in other ways, it will be a sad trip to the airport in February. I am reluctant to say goodbye to this time. I am sad to think about saying goodbye to my favorite fountain in the Luxembourg Gardens and the many French friends who have become regular parts of my life here. I am worried about all of the usual "return to life" questions of work and life and balance. The reality of trips to the gym, commuting and potentially long hours will replace the Paris reality of fresh baguettes, a light workload and fascinating bilingual and even trilingual conversations.

We still have time, however, and I am not bidding "au revoir" until the last possible second. I still have time for at least 3 trips to the Louvre, 26 bakery runs, 14 trips the butcher, 53 coffees, 3 trips to Notre Dame, 1 glance at Sacre Coeur and at least 10 bottles of wine, by my rough calculations.

Still savoring each second,

sPg

Of Corsican!

[If you're horrified or disappointed by this photo, skip ahead to read Vignette Three, then start again at the beginning...]

Can I seriously be posting a blog entry on our Christmas travels two weeks late? Of Corsican!

I think Sara did a great job of summing up the spirit of Corsica in general and of our trip there in particular, so I think I'll just stick to a couple of vignettes. And please keep in mind, dear readers, you read this blog for the wacky and entertaining, not for fawning "it was so beautiful," "we felt so at home," etc. It was a fantastic vacation, one of the best I've ever had, but the crazy bits make for better blogging. Oh, one more note--most of these photos don't necessarily go with the vignettes, some of them are just ones I wanted to include.

And now on to the vignettes...

VIGNETTE ONE
Before heading to Corsica, being the OCD guy I am, I kept e-mailing our “gite” (rural lodge/hotel) asking detailed questions about how to take the once-a-day bus from Ajaccio to Guitera-les-Bains, our 65-person village. Every time I wrote, they'd provide the information I'd asked for, but they'd gently remind me of their previous suggestion that I call when we got to Ajaccio because someone from the village would likely be able to come pick us up. So, imagine my surprise when I called the gite upon our arrival in Ajaccio and was told, sheepishly, that no one was free to come get us, and that a better option might be...hitchhiking. Across Corsica. With our suitcases. In the rain. Two days before Christmas. In the end, we decided to spend our first night, as opposed to our originally-planned last night, in Ajaccio. And the gite did set us up with door-to-door rides to and from the airport in the end.

VIGNETTE TWO
One omnipresent companion on our Corsica trip: guns. I haven't seen so many guns in one place...since the last time I visited the in-laws. Seriously, there are lots of guns in Corsica. When the guy who was driving us from Ajaccio to Guitera showed up to pick us up, Sara went to get in the back seat...and had to move the shotgun blocking half of the back seat. When we got to the gite, leaning in a corner by the bathroom were three more shotguns. Wherever we walked, whether on the road or on trails, it was unclear what we had to step over more often: pig poo, the omnipresent native chestnuts, or...shotgun shells. Also, likely in jest, in one of the drives that the locals took us on through the mountains, they told us that when the local police run low on bullets, they come up to the region where we are staying and buy them off the separatists because they're better armed...

And, of course, then there was the time that we got shot at (if you believe Sara) on Christmas Eve. After our transportation hassles on the 23^rd, we finally made it to the village on the 24th, got settled, went to Christmas Eve mass in a nearby village, and shared a terrific dinner with the family. After dinner and before going to bed, Sara and I wanted to take a quick walk to and back from the nearby church, just to stretch our legs and settle our dinners. We got to the church, and were looking down on some sheep grazing nearby, when...shots rang out. Looking up the hill a couple of hundred yards, we saw a guy with a shotgun. He kept shooting. Sara was convinced he was shooting at us, I wasn't, but we both decided to walk calmly but quickly back to the gite anyway. When we got back, we nonchalantly asked the owner why someone might be shooting at/near us. He told us that it was midnight, so now it was Christmas. He told us that at midnight on New Year's Eve, everyone shoots their guns off in the air, “even the women.”

VIGNETTE THREE
Speaking of guns, one day while I was minding my own business, sitting and reading in the “common room” of the gite, Paul-Antoine, the gite's owner and excellent chef, came into the room and said “Hey, American, come out here.” Oh, did I mention he had a shotgun in his hand while he asked me this?

As I (needless to say) walked out the front door, I almost tripped over the bodies of two boars lying just beyond our doorstep. Paul-Antoine said “Hey, American, take this gun, kneel down behind the boars, and we'll take a picture. It will be funny.” There was a brief confusion after Paul-Antoine and the first three hunters standing nearby didn't know how to shoot...a picture...but on Hunter #4, we hit paydirt, and got the photo above.

VIGNETTE FOUR

Having twice refused to go on the boar hunt (that's part of why I got roped into the famous photo), I felt that I couldn't very well say no when another of the townspeople asked me if I'd like to go with a few of the guys down to the mineral baths that gave the town its name ("Les Bains" means "The Baths"). Sara and I had already hiked down to the baths a couple of days previous (they're in a lower half of the town, a couple of miles away), and we hadn't seen much--just the old, abandoned, decaying hotel from the baths' heyday, a concrete dome over the actual spring, and a "huge" spigot spouting the 115 degree water into a long, large stone box that frankly looked a bit like a topless coffin for a giant.

So, frankly, I didn't really understand what going to the baths entailed. Breaking into the old hotel? Climbing into the dome? Did the spring eventually hit the river, and we were going to climb into that? Sara was a bit suspicious of the whole process, so I went alone. In the end, guess what, "the baths" was really the big stone coffin! About six people could fit inside, sitting, and it was terrific. We went at night, so the air was cold (40 degrees), but that made the water feel great. Through the mist thrown off by the water, you could see a truly amazing number of stars. The water smelled a bit sulfurous, but it was rumored to cure virtually everthing, from back pain to skin conditions.

It was so great, Sara actually came along the second nught, and loved every minute of it!

VIGNETTE FIVE
Whenever we travel, Sara gets on my back about looking for “the perfect restaurant.” We'll be in some distant land, it will be mealtime, one or both of us will be getting blood-sugary, and I'll traipse us crosstown in an effort to find a restaurant that was written up in the guidebook/offers a free before-dinner drink/offers a fixed-price multi-course menu/is cheaper/is more authentic. Sadly, despite rumors to the contrary, I'm not a leprechaun, and rarely am I successful in leading Sara to the culinary pot of gold. Fortunately, on our one night in Ajaccio, I did hit the leprecorsican jackpot. We'd struck out with restaurants that were closed Sundays/closed during the tourist off-season/closed for Christmas/too pricy/too empty (a Sara pet peeve), etc., and the fairly intense rain was overwhelming our umbrellas. My faux-cheerful requests for “one more block!” were increasingly met by scowls.

But finally, three blocks beyond our hotel, we stumbled on “U Spuntinu.” When we walked in the door of this hole-in-the-wall, it was honestly like when the stranger walks through the swinging saloon doors in an old Western. Conversations stopped, glasses were frozen mid-sip at lip-level, and the old prospector stops playing the upright piano in the corner. (OK, maybe there was no piano...). By then it was a bit late, so we asked if it was too late to eat (no one else was eating). They said they only had two things, kebabs and “pain bandit.”

When I asked what “pain bandit” was, I was told that it was a special kind of toasted ham and cheese sandwich, and that it was all that Yvan Colonna (a Corsican separatist suspected of killing the highest-ranking mainland French official in 1998 who lived as a fugitive in the Corsican mountains for four years, making him a folk legend). After laughing nervously at the casual but charged mention of this very controversial figure, we ordered one of each item and were “shown” to the one, two-seat table in the entire tiny restaurant. As we felt eyes burning into the backs of our heads, I kept trying to convince myself that the camouflage-clad, mystery-beverage-swilling regulars were likely as afraid of us as we were of them.

Lo and behold, when our food and the two accompanying chestnut beer arrived and we dug into them like we were the ones who had been on the lam in the Corsican countryside, the tension (mostly) melted. There's nothing like graciously loving regional food and drink specialties to get the locals to take a shine to you... Before long, we'd warmed enough to each other to exchange “Do you hate Bush? Good, we do too!” comments, they'd suggested we try the house myrtle digestif (the aforementioned mystery beverage), and, before you knew it, our after-dinner coffees had been comped.

In the end, the sandwich was massive, delicious, and was like nothing we'd ever had before. The kebab was homemade, from three different kinds of meat and with a homemade blend of local Corsican herbs, truly hit the spot. Even the beer was great, and we were thrilled to be offered some of the house digestif.

The meal was inexpensive, nothing fancy, but damned if it wasn't one of our top ten favorite meals we've eaten all year, and an excellent preview of the kind of skepticism-followed-by-warm-welcome that awaited us in Guitera. [by the way, the food photo above wasn't from U Spuntinu, it's from the gite, and it shows our dinner the last night we were there: chestnut flour polenta, figatelli (a famous fresh pork liver sausage), brocciu (a cheese like Ricotta), and a fried egg. It's a traditional Christmas-week meal.)

Well, now that I've updated you on what happened two weeks ago, I can start working on another blog about something that happened over a month ago—my first acting work in the French cinema. More on that soon.

Josh

LIfe, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness

[written in Corsica last week]

When I last saw Josh tonight, a tall Corsican man dressed partially in camouflage asked “The American” how old he was and then invited him to sit at the table full of local men. After a seemingly satisfactory response, I saw a new glass being pulled from the bar for Josh who then shrugged and said, “I guess I have to sit.” I wished him “Bonne Chance” as I happily slipped out of the door into the quiet and star-filled mountain evening en route to bed.

Before we came here (to the tiny moutain Corsican village of Guitera, with a population of 65 people), I jokingly said, “Well, after a week, we’ll either be run out as invaders or Josh will be elected mayor.” He might not ended up as the mayor, but no one disagreed when he jokingly asked that all question to “Josh the American” be addressed to “Monsieur l'Ambassadeur”.

Here is what I know about our Christmas Corsican Adventure—it isn’t what most tourists expect, but it is exactly what we were looking for. We didn't come here for the famous beaches, we came to Corsica for the mountains, the unique culture and the famous pork products (lest you think we are too high-minded). And, after eating dinner with a collection of Corsican men and two European couples, Josh and I came to the conclusion that we’re experiencing less of a vacation and more of a cultural exchange. In a week, we've managed to get a real glimpse of Corsican mountain culture and I think we've met almost everyone who calls Guitera home.

We've been welcomed in a way that surprises even me. We are one of the only Americans to come to this small village in at least the past ten years, and we've felt a bit like local celebrities at times. A few nights ago we were invited to a neighbor's house for an aperitif and their homemade ham, while others from the town have taken time out of their day to drive us through some of the nearby villages. Josh has especially fascinated the locals and they seem to pepper him constantly with questions about American policy or American customs. [note: its not that they do or don't care what I think, but my French just isn't up to full-out ambassadorial duties.]

It seems that our status as Americans, rather than French or European, has smoothed the way for our temporary integration into the life of the village. Even if the battle for independence is far away in our national memory and our knowledge of it is mostly gathered through years of history classes, we can imagine how rotten it is to feel like a far-away nation occupies you, which is how the Corsicans seem to feel about the French. [Obvious Iraq questions arise here, but for now, we'll sidestep them]. Also, our foreign policy aside, American culture is still beloved by a lot of people. Tonight I was told that Scarface with Al Pacino is one of the local guy's favorite movies, while another woman said that she loves Hitchcock movies.

The strong sense of pride in Corsican culture is palpable here and is expressed most visibly in the various bilingual signs. The Corsican part of the sign is left untouched, the French part of the sign often has bullet holes and spray paint over it. There are also the occasional demonstrations of outright suspicion of the French government. On day three, a Gendarmarie (police) helicopter was flying overhead and all of the men gathered for lunch stepped outside (some with binoculars) to see what the it was about. Though it turned out to be a search for two lost hikers, the first instinct of everyone (including even me!) was "Why are they spying on us this time?" My own sense is that it isn't that they do or don't like the French; but they just don't think the Paris government has much to tell them. They also seem to have felt the same way about their other former colonial master, the Italians, so at least they are fair.

But let's pause here for a quick history lesson: Corscia is a small island that is between France and Italy, both of whom have ruled it at various times. Napoleon was born here and his family is buried here, but it's not clear if anyone who is Corsican actually cares. People here speak French officially, but there is also a local Corsican language, which sounds a bit like Italian. There are amazing beaches that are extremely popular as a European vacation destination and there are also mountains that are over 8,000 feet.

The island also has a slightly sinister side and organized crime has thrived here at times. Vendetta killings aren’t unknown here, though apparently they are extremely rare. McDonalds doesn’t exist here either, if that even seems possible. Apparently each time they tried to open one, as one local explained, “Boom”, which means, someone blew them up. Pork products of every variety, as well as cheese, is taken very seriously here. I Muvrini is a great Corsican singing group and a lot of Corsican music reminds me of the Portugese fado music, which was used as an artistic demonstration against years of dictatorship. There--Corsica 101.

Unexpectedly though, I feel oddly at home here, despite the somewhat language barrier. It's not that the Indiana town that I grew up in was that remote, and it did have a McDonalds, but there, as here, camouflage, shotguns and pork products are simply a part of everyday life. The mountains that surround us here in Corsica are a far cry from the flat Indiana fields, but the many dogs and pickup trucks feel familiar.

Dinner tonight was very nice. Fairly traditional—a damn good pork chop and gratin dauphinois (a potato, cheese, and cream casserole—it's where we get the term "potatoes au gratin"). After dinner, a bit of wine and a round of digestifs (after-dinner drinks), a man came over and explained how the notion of the pursuit of happiness is actually a Corsican term. It's true—30 years before our Declaration of Independence, a Corsican named Pasquale Paoli first put the concept into a written national charter. 240 years later, the Corsicans are still fighting for it and I'm glad that Thomas Jefferson had the good sense to include it.

For me, while I’m a temporary resident of Guitera, Corsica, the view of life isn't all the complicated and hardly includes revolutionary thoughts or high-level political discussions. For a week, my own pursuit of happiness is simple. The mountains in the distance are beautiful and I love to watch them change colors with the time of the day. The sheep outside our door are downright funny to a "sort of" city girl, and it's fun to play with the friendly dog that sleeps outside our door. The wonderful meals we've enjoyed with Paul-Antoine's family nearly feel like the icing on an already perfect cake.

The mountains of Corsica are a special place—but they are that way as much because of the people who still call it home as they are for the incredible views. And as much as I'll always remember the mountains (and the chance encounters with wandering livestock), I somehow suspect that I'll most remember Corsica for what it taught me about US history and some core American values. I guess all I can say is, "Thanks Pasquale—I think you were spot on about the Pursuit of Happiness."

sPg

Christmas in the City of Lights

Everything that is said about Paris in the springtime is true, but Paris in December is just as special. The City of Lights doesn’t dare to skimp on this time of long evenings and fewer tourists. In the last month (since the arrival of all the Christmas lights), it feels like the city has wrapped itself up like a beautifully decorated present, just enough for those who call this place home to spend chilly December evenings here.

With the approach of the holidays, Parisians also get very serious about their seasonal cuisine. While not for the faint of heart or even possibly most American palates, for foodies, this is as good as it gets.

Foie gras, oysters, scallops, game, special holiday teas, special cheeses, special cakes—it's all here at seemingly every turn. The local grocery store even brought in two large temporary refrigerator cases devoted entirely to foie gras and caviar, with both ranging in price from 8 to 100 euros!

The butcher shops are fascinating and a little disturbing since now it seems that every type of bird and rabbit are hanging from the ceiling. Nothing says Christmas like birds and rabbits, I suppose! There is a part of me that thinks it can’t really be Christmas without Polish sausage, but just this once, I’m finding if I hum “I’ll be home for Christmas” while eating some foie gras, somehow it's easier.

Tonight, Josh and I are heading out on a Christmas date. We leave tomorrow for the mountains of Corsica, where we will be spending Christmas, but we couldn’t resist a Saturday night on the town admiring all there is to see.

A trip to the department stores to see the windows feels like a perfect addition to the Marshall Field’s Christmas window-gazing tradition of my childhood. The chance to stroll down the Champs Elysees with Josh while surrounded by Christmas lights feels one of like the most romantic walks I could imagine. A few Christmas markets are still open and we can’t help but think there is a little treasure there to be discovered. Maybe if we’re lucky, we might even find a glass of vin chaud or a little café with enough room at the counter for us.

And so, with Christmas music playing in our apartment, our “Holiday Lamp” all aglow and a cup of warm tea beside me, I’ll leave you until after the New Year.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Hoping Santa can still find me,

sPg

Pluta Parentals

People said it couldn't be done. Rumor has it that a great aunt declared, "Henry won't go to France, even if his daughter is there." Even we were a bit skeptical, and we knew they loved their first trip here in May. But against all odds, the Pluta's returned to France and loved it! We headed out of Paris this time and met in Toulouse for a 10 day trip in the Southwest and in Provence.

We explored one perfectly charming little village (Cordes-sur-Ciel), and even saw some local art. Be sure to notice the Tour de France hat of Dad's that proves his newfound affinity for France and mom's very French scarf, which made her a near local.

There was an ongoing quest for the perfect Christmas Card photo. Here is one attempt in Carcassonne--in addition to being a possible Pluta Family Background, this walled town is also where Robin Hood was filmed and it is approximately 1,000 years old.

Sometimes I was overwhelmed by the pre-Christmas spirit, what can I say?

We also went to see the world's highest bridge. This was Josh's idea and it made Dad happy. Mom and I were game since the boys were so happy, but we did think, "We're driving how far to see what?" I, however, did manage to conquor my bridge phobia for the first time. Maybe Josh's bridge impersonations helped.

We also saw a lot of Roman ruins. This is where gladiators fought for centuries in the city of Nimes. Is it just me or do we look photoshopped in?

We also listened to a LOT of audio guides. Here, Dad is modeling his hat along with Audioguide #512 which explains the history of Nimes gladiators and still ongoing bullfighting tradition.

This is the second bridge-like thing of the trip. This is actually an ancient aquaduct. The boys went there solo. Mom and I were having tea and shopping while the boys were looking at ancient plumbing and nearly-as-ancient graffiti on the aquaduct.

Dad even rode the bus! Henry Pluta on public transportation in France!!??!! Did anyone else notice a rip in the time/space continuum?

We didn't have a lifesize cut out of David to include in this family photo, but somehow the Harley is close enough. Having David with us would have made the trip complete, but I suspect France wouldn't let in that many Plutas at once.

This was perhaps my favorite day of a truly wonderful trip. We ended our time in the city of Avignon at a Christmas market. Lights, tasty treats, mild weather, music and the chance to laugh with Mom, Dad and Josh...it was pretty special. And, I really and truly think that cotton candy should be a party of every Christmas festival! Mom had a waffle with whipped cream that she enjoyed so much that I don't think I'll never forget how happy she seemed as she ate it!

We stopped for one last beverage before heading back to Paris in this cute little cafe. It felt like we were in a French kitchen from the 1930's. We then returned back to Paris for a last whirl around town.

We said goodbye to my parents on a chilly morning and as I waved goodbye, I realized that our hosting duties in Paris were officially over. Since April, we've had the joy of sharing this amazing city with 35 people, which surely should earn us at least an honorable mention in next year's Nobel Peace Prize discussion. It was really a blast though and I couldn't really imagine this adventure without the stories and antics that each visitor brought.

For those of you who came, thank you truly for making our adventure so fantastic. For those of you who couldn't make it, know that we thought of you often and probably toasted you with a glass of French wine.

It isn't very often that you can truly count life in moments, rather than deadlines, but this year was filled with them.

Back to counting my blessings before Christmas,

sPg

Yankee Go Home

When I got home from doing errands and found this truck in front of our apartment building, I started to wonder if France was trying to send us a message.

It wasn't just on our street, or on our block. It was literally right in front of our apartment. The lit-up window over the sign is our living room window. Here's a picture of Sara, Evita-like, or perhaps Mayor McCheese-like, greeting her subjects from our living room window.

And here's the view out the window, looking down.

I suppose we can only hope that this same time next year, there's a foie gras or a stinky cheese billboard outside our DC window...

Josh

Appy Sanksgiving

As you all likely know, on the fourth Thursday in November, the French don't celebrate Thanksgiving like we Americans do.

Instead, they celebrate Thanksgiving on December 16.

No, I suppose they don't. I guess I really am just that late in posting news and pictures from our excellent Paris Thanksgiving dinner. OK, so with apologies, think of it as the leftovers that wouldn't go away, here's the play-by-play of our Paris Thanksgiving.

First, if you go to a French butcher shop in late fall, here's what you are most likely to find:

The rabbits and the hares still look pretty good here, and they do for a couple of days. But then, if they don't sell by day two or three, there's usually a plastic bag around their head, held on by a rubber band, so that any...escaping liquids...are contained. By the way, the sign in the picture says "Game has arrived: Roosters, pheasants, "green necks" (the green-headed ducks you see in the park), partridges, does, boars, hares, rabbits..."

But, lo and behold, for the first time in the four years I've lived here since 1992, you could see an unusual sign this November at a butcher shop on our street:

It says "Remember to order your Thanksgiving turkey." Within days, in the butcher's case,

we saw this:So, interestingly, it looks like Thanksgiving has made an appearance on the French scene. I don't think they're celebrating it, but I think they realize there are enough Americans in Paris to make it worth recognizing. I also think they find the holiday intriguing--the one day all year that Americans live vaguely like French people do every day of the year: no work and good food!

Of course, French people continue to live like French people, which means that Thanksgiving occurred in the middle of the longest French transit strike of the past few years. This complicated life, since our plan was to celebrate Thanksgiving with Iris (my French host mother from my 1992-1993 junior year abroad), and she lives in Boulogne, just outside of Paris, and probably a 1.5 to 2 hour walk from our house. Since Sara had a work meeting that day, I was in charge of getting all of our food contributions (the turkey, wine, stuffing fixings, and three desserts) over to Iris'.

I hoped to get one of the 10% of metros and busses running that day, or to catch a cab, but since I wasn't sure either of these would really be possible, I had to prepare as if I would be walking the whole way, avec Thanksgiving literally in my hands. For that reason, I had our 16-pound turkey in a wheelie suitcase.

I also packed our classy and tasty new house wine in the bag.

Then I was ready to set out for Iris' house.

Fortunately, though, I was finally able to get through to a cab company on the phone, so I made the trip in a taxi.

Everything worked out great in the end. Sara and Iris, two of my favorite cooks in the world, collaborated to put together one of the best Thanksgiving dinners ever. Here they are relaxing between bouts of cooking. Iris had a stroke a couple of years ago, and prior to living in Paris, Sara and I never expected to be living here, so it's honestly a blessing that this year they've gotten to know each other, swap cooking tips, and share meals in Iris' warm and perfect home.

After hours of hard work, including Iris' genius idea of mummifying the turkey in raw bacon before cooking it, the bird was ready for its star turn.

We sat down to dinner with a motley crew: Iris, Sara, our visiting friend Matt Carty, myself, Sara's French teacher Elodie, her boyfriend David, and two of Iris' American artist friends. There were a couple of last-minute cancellations (less resourceful people who couldn't overcome the transit strike's stumbling blocks...), so there was an even greater bounty of food than we'd planned.

After a lovely Thanksgiving, it was time to head home, but again thanks (but no thanks!) to the transit strike, that was easier said than done. Sara, Matt, and I planned on sharing a cab with Elodie and David, but the special cab we called (most French cabs can't take five people) went to Iris' address not in Boulogne but in Paris, and was then too pissed to come out to get us. We then had to call two separate cabs, which are obviously a scarce commodity during strikes. So, we ended up standing downstairs far longer than we expected.

And, of course, after a bit too much turkey, wine, and waiting, antics ensued.


All in all, it was a very French, and a very American, Thanksgiving.

And since we'll be in Corsica for Christmas (we were in southern France for most of Hanukkah), we didn't get a tree, so instead, we decided to decorate a Holiday Lamp.

With that image, we wish you all Happy Holidays.

Josh