Louvre It or Leave It

Ah yes, the Mona Lisa. Infamous. Well-loved. A world-wide symbol of art and museums. Much, much smaller than you would have thought.

The Louvre Museum, the largest art museum in the world, is far more massive than I anticipated. We visited maybe a thimble-full of the exhibits, racing past centuries-old sculptures and important works by dead artists, trying to keep up with our amazing guide, Leontine from Paris Personalized. I'd decided that, in addition to a half-day city walk of Paris, our tour time would be best used with a guide through the Louvre. I know that the girls will hear about the Louvre and its famous works for the rest of their lives and I just had to give them a taste of it, but I knew I didn't have the patience to guide us through it, so a guide was the way to go.

Although I've been to Paris before, the Louvre was closed; the famous welcome pavilion, topped by glass pyramids, was being built and the foundation of the castle's medieval moat was being excavated. So though I'd seen countless Leonardo da Vinci works throughout my travels in Italy and in an amazing exhibit the last time I was at the Uffizi in Florence, I'd never seen the Mona Lisa for myself, up close and personal.

Leontine made our tour like a little treasure hunt, giving us insight into the kings who had lived at the Louvre before it was a museum as well as the history behind the art and the politics of the paintings and sculptures. For instance, Napoleon had the pope painted into his big coronation scene, even though the pope did not consent to actually crowning Napoleon as "emporer" (a self-imposed title by the tiny ruler); in another painting, Napoleon had the artist show him touching ill soldiers in Israel, though the truth is that he scorned the afflicted. All of it was propaganda. I especially liked the realization that none of this is "truth" -- I mean, was Jesus really crowned by a gold halo of light, and was each artist really there at the Last Supper? In one painting, the largest one in the Louvre (I think; after a while, it's very easy to get museum vertigo), Jesus sits at the head of the table at a Venetian wedding party. Naturally, he's in the garb of rich Italians from the era, and there are dogs on the table, a monkey on someone's arm, wine flowing (turned from water into wine by Jesus himself) and portraits of several monks from the monastery that commissioned the painting. I suppose it's not unlike Angelyne in Los Angeles having herself painted as young and beautiful on billboards...

Anyway, the mob around the Mona Lisa was rabid, very much like paparazzi. Flashes going off in all directions. I knew the picture wouldn't be incredibly good, whatever angle I took it from, so I chose instead to have my kids in it, to show them later on that they had been there. I can always buy a Mona Lisa postcard - even from our own LA County Art Museum, right?

And I'll say something snotty about the Greek and Roman statues, too... I've seen "better" in Naples and in Florence. The sculptures were gorgeous, of course. I'm a huge fan of the big M (Michelangelo), and I spent a long, long time at L'Accademia in Florence (and all around the city) just admiring the way in which his sculptures capture the way that blood flows through his subjects' bodies. They feel alive, vivrant, and I always expect them to just walk right off the marble slab and stand among us. The ones at the Louvre are no less spectacular -- and there was also a beautiful room at Versailles celebrating goddess statuary that I liked very much -- but when you've walked alone in a room stacked full of these statues (as I did at the Archeological Museum in Naples, Italy), you sort of expect the same thing. But that's not the French style. Instead, the sculptures are curated, given a wide berth to show off their significance. And I suppose that's the best way to truly appreciate their majesty in such a large museum that receives 7 million visitors a year; I guess I was spoiled by being able to truly experience Roman sculptures in a personal way.

The Venus de Milo -- what I was able to see of it from our vantage point at the edge of a Chinese tour group -- was remarkable in that it is an actual Greek statue, not a Roman reproduction of a Greek statue. It's beautiful, and its beauty is derived from its humble discovery by a Greek farmer in a field, as well as the fact that it has not been "restored" and is in the same condition (which is excellent) as when it was found over a century ago. There is another amazing statue, "Winged Victory," that I loved because the marble was sculpted to look like a sheer gauze rippling across Nike's body in the wind. I can't imagine how stone can be worked to look like movement or softness, but that's part of its mystery.

We didn't stick around after our three-hour tour. The kids were done, and Raf and I were dying for a break from art, too. I keep telling myself that it was for the kids' sakes that we had to leave and take a break, but the truth is that the Louvre is too much museum for a single day or a single visit. There's a lot to digest, so much to discover. Leontine said that it could take three years to see everything and I totally get it. Next time, I'll see a little more.

See? I have to come back.

Our Tour de France

So today is the final day of La Tour de France and we are in Paris, only a few blocks from L'Arc de Triomphe, where the riders will complete their nearly month-long ride through the French countryside. Although we're so close - and it's thrilling for Raf and me to be here because we've watched the Tour on TV for several years - we are watching it on Rai 2 TV in our hotel room; the thought of dragging our kids out in the craziness of the Champs-Elysses today just to hope to get a glimpse of Lance Armstrong on his final Tour is more than a little daunting. Sometimes you just have to put your own dreams on the backburner for the good of the group.

However, yesterday we rode through Versailles on rented bikes, creating our own version of the Tour and, inadvertently, a highlight of the trip.

I'd planned which day we'd visit Versailles from the moment we chose our dates for the trip. It's a short Metro/bus hop to Les Invalides, then a train switch to an RER train, then about a half-hour to Versailles, then a 10-minute walk to the palace, then long lines, long waits, and several places where you need to buy tickets to enter/pass through various areas (the gardens, Marie Antoinette's Petit Trianon estate, etc.). Needless to say, by the time we arrived at a spot where we could sit in the garden and eat lunch (bread-and-butter sandwiches, sliced meat, cheese, fruit and Oreos), the kids were wiped out and we hadn't even gone into the Chateau yet. The only thing they wanted to do was get ice cream and ride bikes. And so we found the bike rentals and took off.

I had hoped to see the palace and grounds in the same pink-hued softly punk-rock light as I'd admired in the Sofia Coppola movie Marie Antoinette. Now, I've lived in Los Angeles long enough to know that what you see in movies is not necessarily the truth and, in that respect, I wasn't disappointed by the lack of magic in and around Versailles. It's almost like I wanted to go home and watch the movie instead, preserving the sumptuousness of the era in my imagination rather than shuffling along with other rabid tourists toting cameras and speaking loudly in many foreign tongues. When I made our family lock up the bikes and go into Petit Trianon, it was like a hot maze of people wandering through empty rooms with blank walls... not at all the grand experience I'd hoped for. My imagination was at a loss to fill in the blanks, save for what I could remember from Sofia Coppola's movie. Very quickly, I realized that the "magic" would be in the experience, not in the place or the stuff.

And so we bought an orange juice (there are kiosks all around the grounds where they'll cut and squeeze fresh juice for you, memorializing the Sun King Louis the 14th, who built Versaille and even had an Orangerie where he had exotic orange trees grow even through the harshly cold French winters) and took off on our bikes. It was exhilarating to ride around the grounds unencumbered by people or signs or cars... We saw sheep and horses and goats. We got a firsthand feeling for how large the estate is, and we barely biked around the Grand Canal. For kids (and parents) who have been cooped up while traveling, it was a welcome burst of energy and fresh air.

After we returned the bikes, Raf took Emme and Nina to the cafe while Marlowe and I quickly roamed through a few rooms of the main palace of Versailles, just because we were there and I knew I'd want to see it. But the magic was in the day itself, in the people I went with, and the Versailles that I'd already created as a figment of my own imagination.

Ten More Pounds!

Paris is a dizzying display of deliciousness. The cakes and cookies and pastries rival the cheese. Our tour guide yesterday was telling us that there are strict rules about how to make everything in Paris and that there are "millions" of societies (guilds) for each food. Like bread. She said that you cannot have the same person make bread AND cakes in a boulangerie. It's not legal. And if that happens, you will be fined. A lot. So bakeries don't do it.

They also use the freshest, best ingredients. American meat is outlawed here and has been for 30 years - why? Because hormones and additives are not allowed here. Neither are GMOs (genetically modified organisms; these are fruits and vegetables that have been chemically altered to produce larger or more "genetically favorable" results, such as thinner skins or frost-resistance); in America, many of our foods may be "organic" (farmed without the use of pesticides) but their seeds are genetically modified, so who knows what their chemicals are doing to us internally?

I hadn't given it too much thought in the US, just tend to try to buy organic, but here's what happened when my kids begged us to buy strawberries in the supermarche on the first day: the kids said, "Mom, why are the strawberries so little?" I shrugged but we bought them anyway, hoping they'd be okay. When they bit into the berries, they said, "They taste different." I grabbed one, saying, "Is it bad?"

"No, they're amazing!" The kids had red juice oozing from their mouths and the entire pound of berries was finished before we'd walked the single block back to the hotel.

What's the difference? Instead of being "meaty" and fleshy with a "strawberry" flavor like what we're used to, these berries were like perfumed gem-like candies, tasting like tiny bursts of juice. They don't even taste like strawberries... it's like a cross between a raspberry and a sweet plum... or a just-picked cherry... It's delightful. Not created for mass-consumption, just a revelation of berry sweetness.

But the entire city is filled with stands like this, for every little thing. Antoinette (our tour guide) took us to a tiny block that has thrice-weekly produce markets and is surrounded by brick-and-mortar shops; the butcher, the baker, the candle-stick maker... Seriously. There was a fish monger, then a cheese store, then a butcher, then a bakery, then a gourmet sundry store... It was intense, this focus on the quality (not the quantity) of the food.

For an American with just a few days here, it is overwhelming. I want to try EVERYTHING. But it is enough to know that it's here and it has already changed my perspective on food. It makes me want to grow my own food and make everything fresh; a Sisiphyan feat for an American mom with kids who have typically American palates, but I am intrigued. If they can love strawberries like that and can appreciate the difference in the quality of the bread and butter we're eating, then maybe they can learn to want to eat differently. It's a start, anyway.
I only wish I had my running shoes so that I could (maybe) counteract my new love affair with food. I can now appreciate Julia Child's love for French cooking.

Ahhh, Paris!

In Paris, the gelato cones (from Amorino on Rue du Buci) look like blossoming roses of chocolate and strawberry.

In Paris, the riverbanks look like little parks (at least during daylight and twilight hours), with people gathering to eat picnics, drink wine, sing songs (like the warbled Bob Marley "Satisfy My Soul" rendition that some French teens were belting out as we passed, or the kids who were humming the beginning notes of the Shins' "New Slang" on the Bateaux Mouches). Lovers kiss. Children roam and play. Tourists gawk and take pictures that are probably blurry or have people in them that they don't know. Ancient monuments hold the sky up.

I'll be honest: Paris scared me. I haven't been here for more than 20 years and I was a teenager in French Club when I was here the last time. I was in love and in love with love. I was crazy and stayed out too late and my French teacher (a short guy from Dallas) tried to reprimand me, but he was too nice to follow through. I lived in Italy at the time, a hedonistic and primitive place compared to the sophistication of Paris, and it never occurred to me that eating at McDonald's and wearing a red beret were lame choices. I remember being treated so rudely by a French waiter near the Musee d'Orsay, even though I spoke reasonable French with a fairly good Parisian accent. I didn't see the Louvre because it was closed (they were constructing the famous pyramids for the welcome pavilion). I went to Versailles but was bored to tears as we roamed aimlessly around the grounds. I almost didn't climb the Sacre Coeur in Montmartre because my boyfriend didn't (but I did do it and it was one of the highlights of my trip). Ahh... seventeen. So young. So naive. So long.

This time, my trip is vastly different and I am no longer living in Europe, so I was worried that it would be harder. I worried about my French being so rusty that we'd be scorned publicly, so Raf and I took French lessons last year (until my French teacher, a strict Quebecoise, made me feel inferior for not speaking the language 100% of the time with her). I fretted over my wardrobe and hoped that navy and white stripes would not be considered gauche or too cliche. I packed way too many pairs of heels. I read a little too much in my Rick Steves guidebook. I was about-to-vomit nervous in Toulouse before we left the airport.

The big reveal? It's positively the most wonderful part of our trip. I am in heaven. EVERY girl and woman (and man) that we pass on the street is both stylish AND wearing navy and white striped shirts... and many of them (women AND men, straight AND gay) are wearing slim-cut denim with the cuffs folded up twice just above their ankles. French words and phrases are coming back to me; I can communicate with nearly everyone and my accent is at least understandable enough to order food, shop, get directions. My high heels have been surprisingly comfortable on the cobblestone streets (and cute, too). Although it's been incredibly helpful, I've also found that I'm reaching beyond what Rick Steves can show me. My nervous stomach was gone as soon as our kind driver Fabrice met us at the airport and began to encourage me to speak French as much as possible. "Your accent is not as bad as many I've heard," he said. That was enough for me.

We're staying at the Citadines Apart'Hotel in the St. Germain-de-Pres area, which is in the middle of EVERYTHING we want to see. Not only is it conveniently located (just off the Seine on the Left Bank, two blocks from the St. Michel metro station, a bridge walk and a block or two from the Louvre on one side and the same distance from Notre Dame on the other side), but it's a one-bedroom apartment with a fully-equipped kitchenette and plenty of space for our cinq personne family. That may not seem like a big deal, but we were able to walk to a supermarche on the first afternoon and then come home and cook veggies for our kids (the first they'd had in nearly two weeks). There's a laundry room downstairs, free coffee in the lobby 24/7 and free internet in each room. Heaven.

Raf had told me that I had nothing to worry about, except maybe someone mistaking me for a local and asking me for directions, which I scoffed at. And then it happened last night. We were leaving the supermarche Carrefour in the Latin Quarter with the kids around 10:45 pm (I know, we're living on Euro time), baguette in hand, and watching a few street performers break dancing. Two young French girls approached me with a map asking for help in finding the St. Michel station. I answered them in Franglish, even though I knew the words in French - I was scared to send them in the wrong direction, which I think I may have anyway (but where better to be lost than in the 6th arrondisement in Paris?). Just go toward the Rue des Grands Augustins, I advised. Find the Seine and go right. St. Michel is just a few blocks down. Can't miss it.

"See?" Raf said. "I told you."

And so he did. I could get used to this city.

The Reason France is So Well-Loved

Dare I say it? It's the cheese. This is at SuperU in Trebes. The cheese section has divisions for Camembert (see the small sign?), Emmentaler, Cheve and more. It is like lactose heaven.

Meet Me at the Cemetery Gates

I always loved the Smiths' song "Meet Me at the Cemetery Gates," and the lyrics hounded me as Emme and Marlowe and I walked around this pretty little graveyard directly outside the fortress walls of Carcassonne. I had been hoping for some ancient headstones, and these were "only" from the late 1800's and early 1900's (through modern times), but I was somewhat enchanted by the blithely colorful ceramic flower arrangements on many of the graves -- so much classier than the silk flowers that fade in the sunlight.

So we go inside and we gravely read the stones

All those people

All those lives

Where are they now?

With their loves and hates and passions just like mine

They were born and then they lived and then they died

Seems so unfair

And I want to cry.

Carcasonne, the Medieval Walled City

Considered to be Europe's ultimate walled fortress city, Carcassonne is also a tourist mecca because it is a living, breathing playground for history buffs. There's a castle, a moat, a drawbridge, and you can kind of just wander around at will. Kids run through the grounds (once you get past the mall-like corridors of shops and cafes, which I actually thought were fairly reasonable in price) and you can pay a little extra to tour the castle and walk along the upper ramparts, but we decided just to run crazy and take our own little tour.

Known as La Cite, Carcassonne is at least 1200 years old - you read that right, a thousand years older than our dear America! It's so old that even the "New City" (outside the walls of the fortress and down the hill) dates from 13th century. It's so old, it was defeated during The Crusades. I read that people have occupied the area since Neolithic times, and the Romans built the first wall, upon wich the bigger medieval wall was constructed (and then the "new" wall was built in the 1300s). Charlemagne and his troops besieged La Cite for several years as well.

Although we had fun wandering this Shrek-like world, we are an American family that is now craving pizza and TV and air conditioning, so I was not at all surprised when Raf

asked me, "Are we Carca-done?" I said yes, and he nodded gratefully, saying, "I'll be happy when we're Carca-gone." Yes, we were there way too Carca-long. In Barcelona, we saw an old guy's Carca-dong. In France, not ordering a pate starter is Carca-wrong.

And, our favorite ode is Carcassonne is borrowed from a cheesy 80s tune:
Carca-Khan
Carca-Khan
Carca-Khan, let me rock you, it's all I wanna do.

La Vie En Rose at Chateau de Floure

The Chateau de Floure, tucked an hour away from Toulouse in the South of France, is the sort of place that arty Europeans like to make films about. It's a perfectly contained little compound of a centuries-old estate (formerly owned by a renown French poet) and a few other small stone buildings covered in ivy, with gardens of boxed hedges clipped into curlique mazes and fruit trees and chirping birds and busily buzzing bees and the sound of the village church bells every half hour. It's kind of like the French film equivalent of "The Love Boat," with several interesting guests -- the 40-something childless couple who smoke a lot and whisper into their cell phones frequently, the family of three generations (grand-mere & grand-pere with twin adult sons, one married with a wife and two small girls and one unmarried), an older handicapped woman traveling with her mustachio-ed husband and small yappy dog, a middle-aged man and his loony, wild-eyed & wispy-hair-in-a-bun wife who constantly harrangues her adolescent daughter (who doesn't talk very much), an older British couple. And us, the Americans. We've seen all of them a few times now, through last night's dinner and this morning's breakfast. Fascinating.

When we arrived, fresh from two trains and a warm drive in a rented Mercedes, our kids hadn't eaten anything but toast and chips in nearly a day and we were alarmed to discover that our 1st floor suite didn't have air conditioning. There was only a half-roll of toilet paper (and I'm on my period - sorry to announce that, TMI, I know, but that's why the TP mattered so much to me... that, and my plan to get my kids to eat a hell of a lot of fruit in France, and you know what that means...). But the reception we got from the girl behind the desk was warm and welcoming and the room was spotless (if a little less than modern... not suprising after our stay in the ultra-hip Hotel Neri), so what the heck, right?

Raf took off with Emme and Nina to find sustenance in the next town over, Trebes, while Marlowe dragged me to the pool. It wasn't as large as I'd imagined from the picture on the website, but it was something to cool off in, so we jumped in... and it was FREEZING! Okay, I'm dramatic, but it was not just cool to the touch, it was cold. After a moment or two, it became "refreshing" and then, by the time I was used to it, I was ready to bask in the sun and then go back in. Right, so not so bad.

The receptionist had asked if we'd wanted dinner reservations and we accepted. Expecting the sort of gourmet-but-untouchable menu we'd had at the Hotel Neri, we were surprised that the food was more rustic French cooking, with buttery vegetables and melt-in-your-mouth meats and fish. Yummy with the local wine we'd selected. The kids' menu had beef, fish or chicken served with either rice or pasta, fresh fruit, yogurt or ice cream -- but the kids pooped out before dessert, so the waitress asked if she could deliver their fruit to the room (across the terrace) for us. Heavenly. Raf and I had our own dessert of crisp crepes (sort of like a crepe taquito) filled with sliced bananas and a dark chocolate sauce, along with coffee and milk.

Normally, this is not the kind of place we would choose. It's not modern and hip, it's not old-school luxurious, it doesn't offer any sort of amenities that we (as Americans) are used to. Room service is really just calling the front desk and then watching through your windows as the receptionist runs to the lounge and pops the caps off some cold beers or sparkling water bottles and walks carefully with them on a tray to the corresponding room. The pool cafe (mentioned on the website and in the room info) was closed. There isn't a spa. The gym (also mentioned on the website) is really just the swimming pool and the tennis court, as far as I can tell. Last night, Raf saw a giant bug with pinchers crawling up the sheet that covered Emme's leg and startled himself by swatting her hard; he didn't tell her what it was, just let her think he was play-fighting with her, but he slept with Marlowe's blanket over his head to keep the bugs out. Our inside joke is that we're camping our way, in the South of France, at an estate with pressed French embroidered linens on the beds. (Even the girls' beds have exquisite dust ruffles, embroidered with the alphabet - perfectly pressed and whiter than white, obviously dried in the sun to attain maximum brightness.)

But there's something to this vacation-within-our-vacation. Far from the bustle of Barcelona and before our foray into Paris, the Chateau offers a lavender-scented solitude that we didn't know we needed. This morning, after we ate fresh croissants and drank a pot of delicious French coffee and orange juice that I squeezed in the breakfast room myself, we took the girls for a swim in the icy water of the pool, which we had to ourselves. I got a suntan and read French magazines while Raf started a new novel and the girls wandered back through their "secret garden" terrace to the room to watch "Up" (the DVD of which Raf bought as "La-Haut" at the SuperU market). The citrusy lavender air, the sparkling blue sky, the sound of the gypsy breeze that blows through the Langeduc-Rousillon region of France... it's all quite heavenly.

Travel Days Suck

I love road trips, I do. And as much as I ascribe to the adage that "the journey *is* the destination," Raf and I have found that our travel days with the kids during this long voyage abroad generally suck.
For example, this is us post-check-out from the Hotel Neri in Barcelona yesterday morning, tooling around La Catedral to get to the taxi stop by Starbucks an hour before our train to Narbonne, en route to Toulouse in the South of France. We had to leave early, by 7:45 am, so we had to wake our kids up earlier than they'd had to wake up in Europe (after yet another midnight bedtime) and, worst of all, we didn't get a coffee at Starbucks because we figured there would be coffee at the train station (WRONG!).

Undercaffeinated and underfed, we somehow made it onto the train, where the sweet South African couple sitting behind Emme put their barefeet on the chairs... (This is Emme with the little green frog that has become the star of her pictures on this trip, appearing in front of landmarks like the gnome in those travel commercials.) Life improved somewhat when we discovered the dining car, where an older Spanish man would take an order, go around to the adjacent kitchen, make the toast/bocadillo/whatever, then make your coffee/drink order, then take your money... In that order, for each person. It was quite a lengthy process, but then again, we had a 3-hour tour...

In Narbonne, our train was delayed by a half-hour and literally no one speaks English (or at least, they didn't to us). We were taking a while to find the right car and heard a whistle and I realized that the train was gonna go, whether we were on or not, so Raf and I just pushed the kids on, threw our luggage on, and hopped aboard, hoping for the best. With my mastery of grammar school French (seriously limited), I was able to find our seats and enjoy the ride through vast sunflower fields.

Finally, in Toulouse, we found our way to the car rental office and then to Giant Burger, where we bought our kids a few Burger Max Country's and "churros" (oh my god, I ate one and I have no idea what the F is in it - not good, not quite a churro, not quite a french fry, not quite worth the box it came in). Surprisingly, the burgers were delicious, as was the salad. As Raf said, at least the French are a bit more "civilized" than Spaniards, offering a better food selection at their train stations.

There's not a lot more to tell about the rest of the trip to Floure (a small village about an hour from Toulouse, which even the rental car lady hadn't heard of), and I'll refrain from detailing the mini-hissy I nearly threw (but didn't) when we found our rental Mercedes and it was incredibly dirty and in dire need of a car wash (REALLY! Civilized??), but we are now in the South of France. With all that it took to get here, I am glad we are not doing anything for the next few days except swimming, eating cheese, drinking wine, watching movies on my laptop and listening to the bees buzz.

Ahh... la vie en rose.

A Raison D'Etre

I love this picture of Raf because he's standing barefoot on La Grande Plage in Biarritz, France.

When I first pleaded for us to go to Europe as a family, I begged for Italy. It's my favorite European country and the place where I tend to feel most "at home" when traveling because I lived there for a few years as a teenager and have been back twice in recent years. It is familiar and easy to get around, comfortable in its chaos, a good place for families, kids, women, romance, art and food. I knew we could find a fabulous villa for a few weeks and rent a car to make day trips. I could guarantee a good time for a trip to Italy: food, wine, gelato, shopping, culture... it's all easily accessible. No one would make fun of our attempts to speak the language. The kids could eat as much pizza, bread and pasta as they wanted. C'mon, I said, it'll be a good introduction to Europe for our kids.

But Raf was steadfast in his wishes. If we're going to Europe, I've gotta surf, he said, citing a few of the famous surf cities that he's seen on his favorite surf docu-reality show Drive-Thru Europe. Kelly Slater and his gang of American surfers set up house in Hosseger (on the southern Atlantic coastline of France) and surfed Biarritz and Anglet. They crossed the border to Spain and surfed Zurriola and San Sebastian. But when they tried to surf in Rome, it wasn't as beautiful, the waves were choppy, the water was muddy-looking. The only saving grace was the food.

Okay, okay, I finally conceded. And then we started to plan our trip. We made Biarritz and San Sebastian our first stops so that Raf could bring his board on the plane and then ship it back home; then, since we're in Spain anyway, we'd see Barcelona. Since it was so close to the South of France, we'd tour around that area next. Paris is the best place to fly home from, so we decided to tack on a few days to tour Paris and see some famous sights with the girls. And then the trip was set. Italy seemed a little too far, a little too "much" to get to this time around, so we didn't push it. Another trip, we decided.

The irony is that Raf isn't surfing this trip. He decided it would be too much of a hassle to bring his board when he didn't even know the waves and could just rent a board here (which was a whole other drama when I mentioned this to him -- it's just not the same, he said, it'll take me days to feel comfortable on someone else's board.). But the trip has taken on a different flavor while we've been here. It's become an experiment in culture, both the culture of European travel and the internal culture of our own little family. How well do we work together as a unit? Can our kids exist on a diet of bread and ice cream? Can we just enjoy the moments as they present themselves?

And so this image of Raf, enjoying the what is-ness of Biarritz, a side trip on our European journey, means a lot to me... When I took it, I wondered if he had been contemplating how Biarritz really brought us to Europe, and whether he was bittersweet about the way that the trip had changed its flavor long before he stepped onto the shell-packed shore.

Turns out he was really just thinking about the Cuban cigars he wanted to buy in San Sebastian later that evening.

The Summer Me

I love to travel and I love Italy. Though we are not planning to go back to Italy until next summer -- for my whiz-bang 40th birthday -- I saw this article in Conde Nast Traveler about "Beaches in Italy" and my excitement is brewing.

This summer, we're taking the girls to Spain and France, no slouches when it comes to the beach-loving Mediterranean lifestyle. We'll be going from the Atlantic side to the Med side and then up to Paris - it has been planned for months and not even our crazy schedule with moving has dampened our enthusiasm. If anything, it's been good, helping to keep us occupied with "reality," so that maybe we can simply relax and enjoy our time in Europe -- we may even forgo all cultural activities (museums, must-see sites) so that we can merely hang on the beach and eat loads of ice cream and practice the art of doing nothing. It's all so good.

But back to the Summer Me. In addition to getting all my guide books and maps, I have been cutting out images of what I want to look like, seem like in my summer glory. Inspiration for the Summer Me. I'm seeing big hats, big sunglasses, tanned skin, scarves, cork wedge heels. In essence, Sophia Loren on the Italian Riviera.

So what if we're not going to Italy this summer? I may have to unleash my inner Sophia on the other parts of Europe...