Coming back from our vacation in Madeira, Portugal… the last leg of our journey: a two hour flight from Porto to Paris. (Re: the title: a French “crèche” is basically a preschool for toddlers.)

Most simultaneous babies crying on an airplane. Ever.

Also, TAP Portugal is evidently known for losing (and then hopefully, a few days later, returning) luggage. On TAP? Pack accordingly.

In an ideal world, this clip would be a call-to-action to all the dimwits out there, but instead I’m sure this will be the highlight of the news cycle this weekend. Undoubtedly the talking heads on cable news will use this to propagate the idea that he’s an elitist or a snob. While he’s absolutely correct there should be an asterisk on his statements. Dare I say, the situation is more nuanced.

In America’s defense, unless your parents are immigrants, chances are as an American you only speak English. European and most all other countries have adopted English as a second (or third) language out of necessity, and often reluctantly. Look no further than to France and how protective they are of their language. But as the majority of entertainment, business, and the Internet is in English, it has become necessary as basic tool of communication.

For Americans, learning a second language is more of a hobby, akin to learning to play the piano. If you took French for your required three years in high school (like I did with Spanish), and you don’t have the opportunity to practice it regularly — like a musical instrument — you’ll soon forget it. The U.S. is also as big as Europe and geographically isolated, so the need for another language just isn’t there. I’d imagine that the same could be said for Australia. As long as English continues to be adopted as an increasingly universal language, the reality of the situation isn’t going to change.

The true issue at the core is not really about new languages, but rather a rejection of academics in general amongst two key demographics in the U.S.

First, the destructive mindset among today’s My Super Sweet 16 generation that knowledge = nerd and success is as easy as a record or pro sports contract. Nothing will ever improve until intelligence returns to being an impressive quality to have amongst your peers. Even eons ago when I was in school, the smart people were relegated to special clubs, unpopular lunch tables in the cafeteria, or worse, the school library.

Second, the ridiculous fear many so-called “adult” Americans have about being more “worldly”, as if taking the time to master another language is equivalent to admitting that you’re country may not be the number one goddamn country in the world, and if you disagree, you’re the enemy. For the last seven years, the Bush administration (and McCain’s possibly waiting in the wings) with the media at its side, fueled by promises of terrorists in suburban shopping malls, has instilled this jingoistic mindset on an entire generation of impressionable young people. Wouldn’t their time in school would be much better spent learning how to adapt to and embrace increasing globalization rather than being forced-fed alternative theories to evolution?

Now call me a snob or an elitist, but I’d rather my own children be educated here in the Old World where at least they’ll be equipped with a cultural head start, free from Freedom Fries fiascos and “potential beer buddy” being a valid criteria for being elected president. These, and not just the absence of a second language, are the truly embarrassing things.

Now that I’ve finished channeling Bill Maher, I need to find my walking cane and go yell at some goddamn noisy kids playing on my lawn. How becoming a father changes your perspective…

As a follow up to our previous bathroom construction post, I can now say that, after three long weeks, we finally have a brand new bathroom with clean-looking walls. Voila:

Look! Tiles to the ceiling!

Beyond this photo, they’ve reinstalled the shower glass and wall holder, allowing us to finally take long, hot showers instead of taking ineffective baths or having to wash our hair over the side of the tub. For three weeks. Ugh.

But the worst of it was that I had to babysit the entire process. continue…

After spending a wonderful Sunday afternoon up at the Canal Saint-Martin, we took the 4 back home and decided to walk from Odéon.

Soon after we noticed a huge crowd of gawkers and paparazzi at the corner of Rue de Condé and Rue Saint-Sulpice, looking into the restaurant Marco Polo.

We joked about it perhaps being a Britney sighting, but an onlooker said “no, more interesting than Britney…it’s Ingrid!” And there she was, trying to enjoy a meal with her family and friends.

Picture it… a lovely Sunday afternoon at The Bombardier, an English pub: lunch, a suddenly- wet baby, a hungry, diaper bag-toting Mom and Dad, Paris.

Perhaps because we were in an English-speaking establishment, I completely forgot what town we were in when I grabbed the diaper bag, scooped Dante up, and started heading for the bathroom, completely forgetting that very few restos in this city have any baby-changing facilities. Duh.

Long story short: Dante screaming, inconsolable, small stall, hot and humid, head bumped on the back of the toilet tank from partially changing him on his slippery mat on the uneven seat lid, ew, everything else on the floor, ew, plus he’s wiggling with no pants and a pee-wet shirt around his neck. Me — in an unbuttoned shirt and haphazardly strapped bra, completely flustered because trying to feed him didn’t calm him down enough to get him dressed and back out into the resto without continuing to hysterically bawl.

I actually had to call Mike on my cell phone to come into the bathroom and bail us out of the whole discombobulated predicament.

Which leads me to this question: Hey Paris, why don’t you have any freakin’ baby changing stations?

Next time, the entire resto will enjoy the wiggly goodness of my kid being changed on the chair next to me at the table.

No, I’m not talking about the wonderful summer weather we’ve been having in Paris. You see, Monday night our groceries from Telemarket.fr were delivered, and as I opened the last box this is what was inside. It was not the paper towels and 6-pack of milk that I expected to find but a cornucopia of junk food. Evidently this box was accidentally switched with our more wholesome package. The contents are worth well over 100€.

Same as if it was a box filled with kilo bags of cocaine, we knew we had to get it out of the house and into its rightful owner’s hands. Four bags of Pepperidge Farm Sausalito cookies and who knows what else would do us in faster than if it actually was yayo.

The next morning I called Telemarket’s help line and stumbled my way through explaining the mix-up, expecting them to send someone over to take the box and bring us our milk and paper towels. But after clumsily provided some personal information the woman on the line said blah blah blah boite…blah blah blah c’est un cadeau (that’s all I understood…I’m terrible on the phone). I confirmed by saying “cette boite…c’est un cadeau??” She said oui, I said goodbye, and that was the end of it. A box of delicious death was ours for the keeping.

Like people who hold the two keys that must be turned at the same time to launch a nuclear missile, we agreed that anything in the box must only be eaten together, and only with extreme moderation. Our first night, it was two Sausalitos each.

Perhaps this is one way the French keep “fat Americans” fat once they move to France: by “accidentally” delivering boxes of junk food and letting them keep it.

It’s funny what you find in your draft emails or your old journals, isn’t it? This last weekend, I found this partial post from June of 2006 in the drafts of Wordpress, sitting patiently, waiting for the end of its story to go somewhere…

I added a few photos to illustrate, but the rest is as is:

For us, Paris weekends have been completely different than our weekends in New York City.

I used to wake up on a Saturday and head down to the deli for an egg and cheese on an everything bagel with a large coffee, all for under $2. Chances are that by 2pm, we’d be out shopping or running errands. People would be out and about, but the city would be quiet in most neighborhoods… peaceful if you avoided the tourists. Then Sunday was pretty much the exact same. Everything open and available for our convenience.

But as the French like to tell you, it’s different here. continue…

For a while I’ve wanted to record my bike ride from the 6th arrondissement to where I work in Neuilly-sur-Seine, which just beyond the western edge of Paris. My video camera is the tiny, popular Flip Cam Ultra, which I rigged up to mount to the bike’s handlebars. I knew this was the least desirable option due to how much handlebars move while riding. Ideally it would be mounted to my helmet, as my head would serve as a “steadycam”. Effective as it may be, I’m not yet ready to launch myself into that level of the nerdosphere.

The result, in real time, was what I expected: a bumpy, nauseating mess that was especially bad on cobblestone streets, or pavé as they say in French. To salvage the footage, I sped it up and added some music. It was such a gorgeous morning that I couldn’t let it go to waste.