Hobbit Feet and Hiking Shoes

Sophie walked in the dirt barefoot and got dirty little feet for the first time I've ever seen!

 She is fascinated by the sight.  I'm so proud.
Then Sophie and Sofia went on the merry-go-round.  I declined because merry-go-rounds are starting to make me feel sick.  I'm getting so old.

Then this morning Sofia beat us to the top of the stairs, and this is what we saw when the elevator door opened:

 Sofia says "Bahahahahahahahaaaaa!"

Then Sofia and I went on a test walk to get some more rope.  "It needs more...rope, yes rope."
It rained on us.  I tried my humpback poncho and looked like a tree monster.  So I took it off.  I'll wear it the woods.  If I look like a monster in the woods and nobody sees me, am I really a monster?  I guess if I look this bad, I won't have to worry about mace, rape whistles, and learning how to poop, pee, and vomit on command to save myself.  Good, huh?
When we got home, we took pictures:

I like this one even though it's blurry... and Sofia likes this one.

We are about ready to drop our extra luggage off at a friend's house (please pray for our luggage that she doesn't do anything to it, namely my corset and Sofia's phone, or steal our stuffed animals) and then we are ... done.  Done in Paris.  All done.

What a summer.

Zombie Apocalypse Prep and My Last Ballet Class

Sofia's been sleeping a lot.  I don't blame her, because she is an odd sleeper anyway and if you add jet-lag to that, she's a goner.  We did get out for a lovely walk around Montmartre, though, which is my favorite place in Paris.  We went into the Sacre Coeur basilica, which is absolutely breathtaking, in my opinion.  Just epic.  An art nouveau take on medieval architecture.  Mosaics with gold pieces all over the walls, twinkling behind the candelabras (or they would be, if they lit candles where they were intended to be), and twining on the railings.  And the dome in the middle is lofty and bright and held up by four angels with beautiful wings, and the sun shines in through a million stained-glass windows and makes rainbows on the pure white stone..  I really like this place.

the outside is so gorgeous, too.  by Stephan Edelbroich.

from this guy's blog.

As we were walking through, Sofia's main observation about the place was not that she liked it, per se, but that this would be her ideal location in the event of a zombie apocalypse.  It's too bad we would have to board up the windows, she said.  That would be too bad.  I think we should make at least one window-covering maneuverable, so that we can open it on zombie-clear days and bask in the colored light.

I would have to say, however, that while Sacre Coeur in Paris is quite a picture-perfect place for post-apocalyptic headquarters, it can only be my second choice.  When it comes to apocalypse refuges, I've always imagined myself holing up in the Slater Memorial Museum in Norwich, CT.  I used to work there.  It was my prime motivation to get an MA in Museum Studies.  I know the place inside and out since I've dug into every hidden corner in my inventories and object searches (oh, for the days when I was an explorer!).  The old creaky floors, the thick wooden beams that vault the ceiling, the little library loft, the deliciously dusty attic, the stained-glass windows behind the statue of Moses*... I just love that place.  One summer, I started daydreaming on a regular basis about living there with a small clan of survivors after some horrific world catastrophe.  Where would we sleep, would the windows still be intact, which of the artifacts would be looted already and how could we prevent further looting while caring for the remaining objects?  I think I even started writing down bits of a short story once..

i love this picture!  perfect for apocalypse pondering!  thanks Richard Arsenault for making it!

this is a vintage postcard.  the inside looks a bit different now, but only a bit.  isn't the architecture wonderful?

Funny, both buildings were built around the same time.

Change of subject:  my last ballet class was tonight.  I was worried that my hair (which is now red and still retains quite a bit of dye, since we only dyed it yesterday) would leak red down my face when I sweat.  You should've seen what I looked like last year with freshly dyed hair in a rainstorm.  As a precaution I wore a black shirt so that I could mop off my face and not worry about staining it red.  My fingertips were quite pink, though, by the end of class.
I told Frederic Lazzarelli, by friendly local ballet instructor, that this was my very last class, and he kissed my cheeks in the French manner and said goodbye.  And when I said thanks again at the end of class, he blew me a kiss.  It was good.

That is all.  The end.

*I actually saw a replica of the Moses statue on a grave in the Montmartre Cemetery.  Surprised me to see such a familiar face in that place.  He certainly is a weird thing to put over your dead body.

An Historic Moment

Sofia is coming tomorrow!!  Yes, Sofia with an "f".  My sister!  She's coming!  This is a momentous moment, you don't even know!!  So I am going to tell you:

Since I was 16, eleven long/short years ago, I have travelled to Europe on several occasions and spent long stretches of time here.  

A brief CV of my European experience, partially because I want to brag a bit, but also to humble myself, since it doesn't look all that impressively long when written out in full:

2001-2002 lived in the netherlands, visited denmark, luxembourg, and germany

summer 2005 summer school in england and visit to the netherlands

spring semester 2006 lived in florence, visited finland, visited the netherlands

2008-2009 served a mission in germany

now, summer 2012 lived in paris, visited the netherlands, will walk spain, visit london and holland again 

= 38 months total, or 3 years and 2 months of my 27 years

Sofia was super jealous, which, to be painfully honest, made me feel pretty special.  She, on the other hand, could write a similar CV of her American experiences.  She's driven across the country more times than I can remember and greyhounded it once as well.  

We've both had our fair share of adventures.

But the momentousness of this moment is wrapped up in the fact that I've always been alone over here. Alone, as in: none of my nuclear family has ever made the trip with me.  Dad has threatened to join me in the Netherlands a couple times, but it's never worked out.  Mom was thinking about coming to get me from my mission, but that didn't happen.  They were both going to walk the last weeks of my pilgrimage with me but decided to use the money elsewhere.  Which makes complete sense, and I don't begrudge them those decisions.

What I'm trying to say is that my two worlds just don't collide.

I cried a lot the summer I got back from the Netherlands.  I was processing the whole "change happens, people leave people behind, some things end up feeling like it was all a dream" feeling.  And I thought back then that if I could just bring my family to see my Dutch life, I wouldn't feel so divided.  

Now, ten years later, I've come and gone from lots of places.  Change still feels eerie, but I'm used to it.  I've loved and left many people, some of whom I may never see again, but as bosom companions they never really leave me.  I've gone back to the Netherlands and made sure that the people and places I knew there weren't just a dream.  Wandering in foreign places all alone is just the life of a Pilgrim, and I have come to cherish the solitude and independence of my Winged self.

Now, ten years later, Sofia is coming to my inner sanctum.  I will show her the important places of my and our family's past, and we will explore new paths together.  I can feel in my heart the possibility of feeling slightly sad that My Europe will disappear, but that feeling is happily overshadowed with my excitement.  This is the moment.  My two worlds are melding.  My wings will become less of a European phenomenon and more a part of my whole self, American roots and all.  I'll touch the ground and the clouds at the same time.  We'll do it together.

Rappelling At Bad Bentheim

While I was in the Netherlands, I went rock rappelling with the Kabels and their friends.  It was a lovely day to be spent in the woods of Germany, talking and relaxing and risking death for kicks.  I was really nervous to go over the edge; I haven't rappelled off a real cliff since, well, a very long time.  The last time may have been with these exact people at this exact place...  I remember it being completely terrifying to back off the edge and then completely thrilling on the descent, feeling weightless and free, bouncing in horizontal space.
Somehow I've gotten old and boring, though, because while the terrifying parts were not nearly as terrifying, the thrilling parts were not as thrilling either!  Maybe I have more self-preservation, so that the trip down the cliff felt more like work.  Maybe I'm heavier, so that the trip down the cliff WAS more work.  Whatever it was, the thrill was much less worth the fear, so I only did each cliff once, and then I was happy to hang out and breath the fresh air (so scarce in Paris).

These pics are all from Guus Kabel's camera.  Thanks Oom Guus!!

"What are you looking at?  I'm putting on a carabiner, if you don't mind."

"I did it!"

...and so on and so forth.

This little boy kept putting the big end of the figure 8 thing in his mouth, and then whipping it back out when I went to take a picture.  I got a whole bunch of rascally grin images, but no 8-in-the-mouth.  

Darn.

This little girl was so scared to go over the edge, she cried.  But she did it in the end!  How brave. 

Isn't this a sweet pic of Jason?

Me.  Relaxing.

Sebaas didn't rappel himself, but he secured most of us on our way down.

I like this pic best.  

The End!

Our New Morning Routine

Since I got back from the Netherlands, Sophie and I have started a new morning routine.  I wake up and come out of my room and say good morning.  She runs to me (makes my whole day) and then wants to go in my room.  I boost her up onto my bed and she hunts for Lamb, my stuffed animal, in the covers.  Sometimes he's pretty well hidden in the blankets, but she knows he's there!  She looks and looks, and when she finds him she gives him lots of kisses.

Then I go to brush my teeth, and she comes with me.  Today she got my toothbrush, toothpaste and floss out and brought them to me, so I wouldn't forget.  I get both our toothbrushes ready and then we brush together, with her on my left hip so I can still use my right hand.  Her favorite part is when I gargle.  She's intently watched me do that since the beginning.  This morning emphasized the spectacle of it, as Sophie sat on her mommy's lap and watched me swish and gargle and spit.  She laughed and laughed and then tried to spit herself, only succeeding in getting some drool on her chin and her mom's arm.  She'll get there soon.

I get the feeling that Sophie loves me a lot and missed me while I was gone.  Man, am I going to miss her.  For the rest of my life, really, once she grows a bit and forgets who I am.  I'm treasuring up the moments.

This is the only picture I have of Sophie and Lambie.
Don't be fooled by circumstances of this picture;
they are good friends.

I Only Speak English

Plus: random pictures I took in the Netherlands to share with y'all.

croquettes taste like heaven after 10 years!  

My visit to the Netherlands was truly wonderful, and I will be posting more of my adventure later, but there was one aspect of it that turned into a disaster.
Do you remember how I posted a few moons ago about how wonderful German is, and how it rolls off my tongue with ease whenever I try to speak it?  Well, little by little, that golden era has passed me by, and now it is leaving me in the dust.  Pride cometh before the fall, I suppose.

me at the atlantic

It all started when two older German sister missionaries moved in to run the institute center, and in my eagerness to speak German with them, I stumbled over my French!  I panicked for a moment, but I seemed to be able to right myself again with little trouble.  I'd only been learning French for a month or two, and the sisters understood if I couldn't help saying "Oui" instead of "Ja".  As the weeks passed, however, I realized how many vocabulary holes I have in German.  What is the word for "seam" or "pin" or "lacing"?  Talking about my corset was tough without those words.  How about "persistent" or "stalker" or "heartbreak"?  Not knowing those made talking about boys quite impossible.  But I was confident that I just needed time and practice to remember old words and learn new ones.

driving in the Netherlands!

Then Jason Kabel came to visit and, while remembering Dutch helped me appreciate French, I found speaking German to the two missionaries was requiring a little more thought, even after Jason left.  I was suddenly unsure about the words I was choosing to express even the simplest greetings and conversation.  But again, I figured time and practice were all I needed to get back in the swing of things.   My Dutch, on the other hand, was not giving me trouble, but only because I wasn't expecting a lot from it.  It has been ten years since I left the Netherlands, so I was impressed with myself that I could understand almost every word of Dutch that Jason spoke!  I spoke English back at him, which must have confused the heck out of eavesdroppers on the Metro.  I was satisfied with the state of my Dutch, that is, until I went to visit.

When I was in the Netherlands, I wanted to be able to communicate with people on their own terms, on their own turf.  This is where I started running into trouble.  I would say something that I thought was Dutch.  Simple sentence structure, perhaps, basic word choice, but at least it was Dutch.

i went to the temple that
i saw being built ten years ago

Turns out it wasn't.
Turns out I used German words all over the place.
Turns out I used German words pronounced like Dutch, or Dutch words pronounced like German.
Turns out I couldn't even tell!

THEN, even worse, the patient Dutch would tell me, "Don't worry, go ahead and speak German.  We can understand it."
And I would try to speak German, but end up using Dutch words all over the place.
My understanding Dutch friends told me I sounded cute.
I was humiliated.

I console myself with the fact that at least I didn't sound like an American*.  On the rappelling trip with the Kabels, a few people I had never met before asked me where I was from, wondering if I was French or German.  One little boy told me I sounded Belgian.  I wasn't sure how to take that one.

jason is taller than his front door

Sunday provided the death knoll to my language confidence, however:  I went to visit Anneke Feith, my lovely host mom.  Her three grandchildren were visiting for the weekend.  Guess where they were from.
Germany.
I was completely lost after that afternoon.  I couldn't tell the difference when Anneke was speaking Dutch or German, since her accent in both is similar.  The oldest grandchild was the only one who spoke Dutch, but I couldn't tell when he was doing that either.  Thank heaven all three of the children could understand both languages, because I was mixing them up most shamefully.  At one point, I caught myself saying a short sentence in which every other word was in a different language.  It was like I was making up a new creole (or perhaps a pidgin).  Either way, it is unacceptable and I need to stop.

this is the coolest cauliflower

Last night, I went to a crepe party at a friend's house here in Paris.  Everyone spoke French, and it was good to hear it again, even though I was reminded of how little I really understood or spoke it.  I was asked to bless the food in Dutch.  I blessed the food in my own personal  Neder-Deutsch pidgin mix.  It was a low moment for me, harkening back to my childhood days when we would just say random sounds, pretending to speak another language.  At least none of the French speakers had any idea how awful it was.

I kind of feel like I'm broken inside, just a bit.  German, just three months ago, felt as natural as breathing!  Now, when I try to relax my brain into "just say it" mode, I spout nonsense!  It's as if I don't remember if my heart or my lungs do the breathing.  I should fix it, maybe.  I could live in the Netherlands and work with Germans, or perhaps the other way around.  If I don't sort this out, my brain will be a mess for the rest of my life!
I need some help, that's for sure.  The first step to rehabilitation is recognizing that there a problem, right?  What should I do?

*I really don't like American accents in any language.  I was really surprised when a French boy thought my slight American accent was "mignon".  I try to eradicate it whenever possible.

Bare Feet Breakthrough!

Today Sophie and I and Matt (a friend from Boston) went to Montmartre (my favorite place in Paris) and we explored behind the basilica, finding an adorable little park to play in.  Some other little girls had taken off their shoes, so I used their examples to persuade Sophie to play barefoot in the sand.  It worked!  Haha!

Then, sneaky me, I didn't put her shoes back on when I strapped her into the stroller to head home.  That way, when we strollered by a lovely deep green patch of grass a little later, it wasn't hard to test the barefoot tolerance on this terrain as well!  I held her by her hands and set her down feet first, but she curled her legs up under her in the air.  She sat on my lap most of the time, but she did venture out into the verdure!!  I even got a picture of it!

Success!  I'll make a barefoot babe out of her yet!!

Dolls

Yesterday we visited the Doll Museum near Rambuteau.  My visit was justified as soon as I walked in the door and saw this doll:

Lovely.  She reminds me of some reproduction dolls I found last year while doing research for the dolls I made for the American Textile History Museum (or rather, they would remind me of her).  The Old Pretenders make some AMAZING dolls, any one of which could be swapped with this antique doll and fit right in.  See?

Sophie was less engrossed than I was in the museum experience, at least until she found the little stroller she could push through the halls.  She tucked her Winnie the Pooh into it and played while I browsed. Thank you, museum people!

Settling Pooh in just right.

That doll's hands were almost as big as hers.

I love this picture.

It was a good time.

I Make Better French Mousse Than The French

I went out to dinner yesterday with a friend visiting from Boston.  We met up after my ballet class and found a restaurant called Rive Droit near Chatelet.  It is a pretty touristy area, so I wasn't expecting too much of it.  I just wanted some escargot and chocolate mousse.  Simple, right?
Well, the escargot was tasty, but there were a dozen of them.  That was a bit much, even for me.
And then, the chocolate mousse was not good.  The texture was similar to mine (validation!), but it seemed to be more sugar than chocolate.  SO SWEET I couldn't finish it.

My chocolate mousse is so much better.
The end.

I'm Home!

I got home to Paris about an hour ago.  I am going to register my first re-impressions of Paris now, while they are still fresh in my mind.

a.  Paris is more hard-core than any city in the Netherlands.  Amsterdam is full of marijuana, but that just makes it feel like an adolescent boy's favorite hang-out rather than anything seriously sketchy.  The Paris I experienced coming out of the train station (Gare du Nord, if anyone knows it) felt like the ghetto and smelled (predictably) like pee rather than pot.

b.  People here pay more attention to their appearance than in the US or the Netherlands, however much I am loathe to admit it.  I felt quite surrounded by chic people as I walked down the platform, especially in comparison to the Netherlands, which isn't the most fashionable of countries.  I did feel a great surge of triumph, though, when one of the really fashionable girls burst into American English when she was met by her boyfriend.  Hah!  Not all of the beautiful people are French!

c.  My new don't-look-anyone-in-the-eye skills kicked in as soon as I stepped off the train, and good thing they did.  Lots of drifters, lots of loiterers.  This contributes to the hard-core feeling of the city.  Before I had even walked the few blocks to the Metro I was accosted by a boy calling me pretty, asking me if I was from the area, and if we could talk sometime.  This, despite my bedraggled appearance, or, perhaps, BECAUSE of the "young American girl on a backpacking trip all alone" vibe I was radiating like the sun.
Guys, you would be so proud of me!  I didn't make eye contact, I didn't smile all the way (one corner of my mouth did creep slightly upwards, but mainly because I was congratulating myself for understanding what the boy was saying), and I said one word: "Non".  And then I was past him!  I win!!

This is me feeling tired on the train.
This is a true-to-life photograph.  WYSIWYG*.
No airbrushing, no photoshop.
I didn't even smile for the camera.

The Physics Of The Slope, Demonstrated By Sophie

Sophie and I went to a new park yesterday that had a fairly toddler-friendly jungle gym.  The ramp was short but steep and wet, so it provided a new challenge to test Sophie's bipedal skills.  The first time coming down, she wiped out with one hand still on the railing, so she swung right off the ramp, into the sand, headfirst.  No crying, just some sand stuck to the forehead, and she worked on going up and down seven or eight more times until she felt more confident!  That's my Sophie!

Going up...  Easy-peasy.

Now coming down...

Tah Dah!

Nasty Fountain

See all the green water and the bubbles?  Looks like a witch's cauldron more than a fountain.  Gross.
I thought about calling this post "Nasty Fountain #1" and making a series of it because there are so many absolutely disgusting manmade water holes around Paris, but then I realized I don't want to devote my attention to them any more than I absolutely have to.  This is the one and only.  Enjoy!

Coolest Clothes Dryer Ever

I made a pair of videos a while back demonstrating the coolest part of our bathroom:  the pulley-operated, space-saving, ceiling-located drying rack!

Sophie thinks it is super cool.  I think it is super convenient.  And I've been waiting for just the right day to make a fort out of it.  Yesterday was that day.

Tah Dah!

Sophie and I played in the fort for a relatively long time (read:  30 minutes), and Sophie even made me put her in her swimsuit to play around in it.  Here are some pictures:

no hat,

red hat,

two hats!

It was a fun time, though I think Sophie will need some practice before she understands how to fully exploit the excitement of a fort.  I think my fort was her first fort ever!  Another important moment in Sophie's young life, brought to you by me.