In which a Jewish family from Brooklyn moves to Paris, France for two years of work, school, and adventures.
101 Cookbooks
A Day in Paris
Alesian Literary Salon
Balabusta
Bus 38 Online
Chocolate and Zucchini
Cucina Testa Rossa
Daniel Gordis: Dispatches from an Anxious State
David Byrne's Website
Dispatches from France
Eurecole
French Wine a Day
French Word-a-Day
Hannah Senesh Community Day School
International School of Paris
Jewish Roman Tours
Kane Street Synagogue
L'Amerloque
Manhattan User's Guide
Microcosmos
Mollie Katzen Online
NYC a Paris
Orangette
Overheard in New York
Pie in Paris
Red Wheelbarrow
Sentence Guy
Speak E-Z Food Reviews
strongbad emails
The Aimless Files
The Julie/Julia Project
This Blog
This Normal Life
today
September 2005
August 2005
July 2005
June 2005
May 2005
April 2005
March 2005
February 2005
January 2005
December 2004
November 2004
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September 2004
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I put on my ruby slippers, clicked my heels, chanted "There's no place like home"--then I took a train, a 7-hour flight, and a taxi--and magically found myself transported back home to Brooklyn.
Last week, I spent five days in NYC with my oldest son, J., visiting high schools in anticipation of moving back home over the summer. We had a great time, and his high schools visits were all successful. Now he just has to choose (assuming he's accepted). There was only one flaw in the ointment: It was pledge week at WNYC, New York's public radio station. Of all weeks to be home and equipped with a radio!
A few thoughts upon returning to Paris:
1. I love NY. It is home in a profound way, while Paris feels like home in a pleasant but temporary way. I rarely forget that I'm not here (in Paris) permanently, while in NY I easily forget that I'm only around for a short time.
2. NY dog owners, you're slipping! As we walk around the dog poop-strewn streets of Paris, we have often reflected on how much cleaner NY has become thanks to the pooper-scooper law. Sadly, it is no longer true.
3. Shocking news: Most people in NY speak English! Hey, I'm just not used to it. I found myself turning my head each time I heard a voice speaking English, as I usually do in Paris. I also found myself greeting shop owners upon entering stores and saying goodbye when I walked out, in French style, out of habit. It seems like a pleasant, courteous thing to do, but I did get some funny looks. And it takes forever to stop saying "pardon" instead of "excuse me."
4. My body seems to prefer NY to Paris, overwhelmingly. The persistent lower back pain disappeared instantly, the stubborn pimple on my cheek started to clear up, and the patches of dry skin on my sides, which I'd been slathering with sweet almond oil to no avail, just vanished.
5. Yes, there's a Starbucks on every corner in NY, but lots of them have no comfy chairs. That was disappointing.
*******
Yesterday was "La Journee Porte Ouverte" (Open House Day) at E.'s school, Eurecole. Prospective parents and current parents alike are welcome to spend the day sitting in on classes, and many do. I spent about a hour at the beginning of the day, observing the kindergarten's morning rituals and E.'s English class, and then returned later to see his German class. Although he is thriving at the school and loves all his teachers, it is pretty shocking how structured the day is compared to an American kindergarten. Aside from their outdoor playtimes, there is little or no time to just explore the classroom and play. They spend most of the day seated at the tables, working on various projects with their colored markers and special black pens ("feutre extra fin noir," as E. explains with his perfect accent).
SInce I know that next year E. will be back in an American school in NY, with more playtime in first grade than he has this year in kindergarten, I'm not concerned. The skills he's learning now--excellent cutting technique, coloring in the lines, writing perfect cursive letters--can't hurt. But some parents who are here for the longer term were quite surprised and even worried by what they saw. Allowing parents into the classrooms is a mixed bag--sometimes we see more than we really want to.
