The South of France

We spent the last ten days of August in Collioure, a small town on the Mediterranean about twenty-five kilometers from the Spanish border. Ochre and salmon buildings walled in the old town's pedestrian streets. A stone promenade traced the shoreline, including five small beaches, a medieval chateau, a former lighthouse turned clock tower and its adjacent church.

Our hotel, half a block and across a street to the old town, had a delightful inner garden and courtyard where we ate breakfast under a magnificent magnolia tree. Then we'd head to one of the beaches on either side of the clock tower.

Sam is obsessed with bell towers. Of the half-dozen parks we regularly frequent in Paris, he prefers the ones near churches so he can hear "the guy ring the big bell." He and Pat tell stories about what the guy does when he's not ringing the bell. If it's morning, maybe he's getting a coffee, or a croissant. If it's the afternoon, maybe he's off getting a chocolate cookie or an ice cream cone. If it's happy hour, he's having a pastis, no maybe about it.

So, to sit on a beach all morning with a bell tower so close you could touch it (that is, if you were willing to swim to it), was a dream vacation for the kid. Except for the minor detail that he was afraid of the water. He wouldn't play at the water's edge, or jump over the dribbles of waves, or stand in the clear turquoise sea to look at his toes among the rocks. He would only leave land if Pat carried him, careful not to let any body part touch water.

I had talked up the vacation to Sam by telling him the beach would be like a giant sandbox, only one where he's allowed to play with water. (In Paris, I forbid him to fill his bucket at the fountain--you try cleaning that mess out of the stroller.) But Collioure's beaches, are mostly rock, so we couldn't even build sand castles. (Pat did try burying Sam in the rocks a few times, but when you're a twenty-pound skeleton, too many rocks apparently inhibit breathing.) On our third day, Pat observed that, basically, we could've taken a train ride to a gravel parking lot and it would have all been the same to Sam.

By the middle of the week, Pat was swinging and dipping Sam into the water, though he never did stand on his own. After observing other beach-goers, the two even brought some leftover baguette to feed the fish (much to my inner-environmentalist's horror, though admittedly, I delighted in Sam's enthrallment). Oddly, Sam wasn't the least bit concerned by the schools that completely encircled them, flapping out of the water. Once, he even fed a fish right out of his hand.

Finn wasn't much better. He didn't like sitting at the edge with the waves running over him. (To be fair, the water was a bit chilly.) He did tolerate and even seemed to enjoy being held in the water more than Sam. But most of the time he was content to play with the shovel, drop rocks into the bucket, or take the little dump truck when Sam wasn't looking.

We brought our own snorkeling gear, and Pat and I took turns on little jaunts skirting the clock tower wall. We saw lots of fish, and once I thought I saw a small octopus tucked under some rocks.

We'd usually bring a picnic lunch to the beach. Twice a week there was a market in the town's main square with wonderful local produce (apricots and tomatoes, oh my!), cheeses, cured meats and saucissons, olives, honeys and so on. After lunch we'd shepherd the boys back to the hotel for a quick shower and their afternoon nap, and then a second beach outing (with ice cream snack, of course), before cleaning up, again, and heading to a restaurant, preferably with outdoor seating. We ate lots of moules frites, fresh grilled fish, tapas, paella, and local rosé wine. Most restaurants didn't open for dinner until 7:30, usually the boys' bedtime. Much to our amazement, we were able to push their schedule and occasionally even go for moonlight walks. (This was one of the few times the boys have ever been awake and outside late enough to see the moon--it was a very big deal.)

Twice we took the train to neighboring towns with sandy beaches, for a change of scenery. Sam, of course, didn't understand why there was no clock tower, resulting in a minor tantrum at one beach. At the other, we grossly underestimated the distance from the train station to the beach (an otherwise gorgeous expanse) and spent most of the excursion traipsing through uninteresting and hot suburbia.

One afternoon we took le petit train, a white motorized touring "train," around Collioure, over the vineyard-covered hills to the neighboring port town and back again. The train left from the street across from our hotel's entryway, and Sam was always keen to check if it was there and if it's yellow light was flashing.

Despite the fatigue of the boys' schedules, we had an enjoyable, delicious vacation. Any gloom we may have felt about returning to Paris, to work, to starting preschool, was tempered by our impending departure for Corsica on September 19th--the last of our grand vacations during our year abroad.

Funny Things that Have Happened to Us along the Way

Finn crawled for the first time in Athens.

Also in Athens, while we were checking out of our fancy schmancy hotel, Sam ran across the lobby to a nude sculpture near the entrance, pointed and shouted, "Wiener! Wiener!" as he jumped up and down.

Wiener, and its derivative weenie, are his two favorite words.

Finn took his first steps in the Jardin d'Anne Franck and the Parc de la Villette in Paris.

At a park in the 18th, another mother once asked me if I had an extra tissue to spare. I responded that I only had a salted (salé) tissue instead of a dirty (sale) one.

All of our windows are French-door style, so that they open wide but have no screens.

A pigeon once flew into our living room window with such force it made us jump out of our seats. (We saw it fly away, a bit unsteadily.)

One early Sunday morning after we had just arrived, while looking out the same window, I saw a prostitute solicit a client by pulling up her skirt. Until then I wasn't sure if she was a transvestite or not (there are several in the neighborhood), but she was indeed a woman.

A few months later, while the boys napped, Pat noticed a bird by, again, the same window, and then he realized it was inside. He went over to open the window wider but unintentionally scared it. It took off toward the (unfortunately) closed windows across the room that lead onto our terrace. It slammed into the glass and then dropped to the floor. Pat thought it might wake up, so he scooped it up with a spatula and flung it over the side of the balcony. It landed on some netting that shields a terrace a couple floors down and is sadly still there.

One of our favorite walks is along the Canal St. Martin. The first time we strolled there this year, we came upon a number of tables set up by various environmental organizations. The French love their organizations and manifestations. In the park across the street, there were yellow plastic number signs like the kind police use at a crime scene to mark potential evidence. We wondered if it was some odd demonstration by the organizations, but no, there was a body under a tarp. It was a real investigation.

Last spring, while completing the paperwork for Sam to enter the halte-garderie, I think I wrote that he was very attached to his lawn (pelouse) bears instead of his stuffed (peluche) bears.

Whenever we would pass an ad for EuroDisney (and there were many posters around all summer), Sam would excitedly shout, "Mickey Mouse!" I have no idea where he learned who MM is, since we don't own anything Disney. Nonetheless, I decided his enthusiasm was a good excuse to visit the park, especially since two-and-a-half year olds are known for their love of 45-minute lines. The first thing we did, after waiting to buy our entry tickets, was get in line to see Mickey. Sam can be very shy, and I thought for sure he would cling to us when our turn came. Instead, he ran out with wide-open arms and gave Mickey the biggest hug I've ever seen him bestow on anyone. He even smiled for the pictures. It was the most expensive hug ever, and worth every penny.

The next day he still bubbled with excitement, pronouncing giddily, "I hugged Mickey Mouse!"

And then, "Mickey Mouse has a wiener!"