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.

A Vacation from Our Sort-of Vacation

One of the attractions for us to come to Singapore was the opportunity to travel within the region. Last week we experienced how easy this could be when we hopped on an hour-and-a-half nonstop flight to Ko Samui, an island in the Gulf of Thailand. We chose a small resort on the southeast coast that billed itself as family-friendly, and indeed, it offered everything we wanted: a two-bedroom suite with a terrace overlooking the beach so that we wouldn't be bored in the room after the boys go to sleep at their ridiculously early bedtimes (Finn: 5:30, Sam: 7:30; try to keep them up any later and there's nothing but misery).

It was a bit odd going on vacation, since living in Singapore has been like an extended holiday, be it the tropical climate or the serviced apartment that often feels more like a hotel. Still, it wasn't a difficult transition. 

We were among the first guests at the breakfast buffet along with the other families with small children--the only ones awake so early, aside from the occasional pensioner. Sam became an instant fan of the made-to-order pancake station; I couldn't get enough of the fresh fruit shakes (not quite a smoothie, more like a slushy made of pure mango, or guava, or watermelon, or papaya, or whatever else was on hand that day). And Finn had his first taste of banana! (He's not a big fan, as it turns out.)

The pool was a few steps up from the beach, perfect for Sam's attention span, and he crossed back and forth throughout the day. Finn took unusually long morning naps, giving both Pat and me time to read on the terrace and take turns playing with Sam. Since the resort wrapped around a small cove, we could all easily see each other.

The restaurant was just up past the pool, on a small cliff overlooking the water, and we would have lunch there so Sam could play up until the food was served. While the boys napped in the afternoon, Pat would take the free kayak out to explore the neighboring coastline. I'd read on the terrace and actually finished a book for the first time since Finn was born, and probably since Sam was, too. Sometimes there'd even be enough time after Pat got back for me to go for a quick swim.

On our third day we ventured off the resort for an elephant ride. Having ridden camels and knowing how shaky it is when they stand up, I was slightly concerned about the logistics of how all four of us would do this, but the tour had a nifty platform so that you walked right onto the seat on the elephant's back. This was perhaps the most delightful half hour we spent; even Sam was captivated for the better part of it. Once you get used to the gait, the elephant provides a very calming tour through the cleared jungle. 

The elephant in front of us saw a durian (a notoriously stinky South Asian fruit) along the path and decided to stop for a snack. She then farted (to which the driver yelled, "Turbo!"), but the durian smelled worse.

A couple times the guide would take our camera and deftly slide off the elephant's head to take our picture. This prompted him to spend the rest of the ride murmuring, "Good elephant, good photo, good tip," as if he might hypnotize us into generosity. (Unfortunately for him, we had just changed money that morning and had very little Thai baht in small bills.)

After the ride we were scheduled to visit this waterfall, visible from the embarkation point. So the guide ended the tour by walking the elephant into the stream to take pictures of us with the waterfall in the background. Sam started getting antsy as we held still. After many smiles, he said in a small, plaintive voice, "Shoe." We looked down and indeed he had one bare foot. Pat and I panicked and started looking around, having no idea when his should could have come off (or, more accurately, when Sam kicked it off). But then the elephant raised his trunk, and in it she held Sam's shoe! 

(Pat doesn't quite buy my explanation that the elephant must have understood English and knew what we were discussing.)

The next day we took a taxi to Hat Chaweng, or Chaweng Beach, a stunning white sand, turquoise water beach, though sadly overdeveloped. Pat and I were eager to go swimming in the clear water, but Sam was less interested. He wanted to go back to the pool. We cajoled him into staying with snacks and mud meatballs, but we didn't get to do much swimming. We lunched at a pub in town where the clientele consisted overwhelmingly of meathead white men (tattoos, missing teeth) with Asian companions who doted over Finn. Sam enjoyed his banana milk shake and the shrimp in his fried rice.

We took advantage of the resort's babysitting service two nights. On Friday, we had a lovely Thai set dinner at one of the tables on the rocks. On Sunday, we attended the resort's weekly barbeque and Cabaret. I guess I didn't realize what Cabaret was or had little idea what to expect, because I was initially appalled by how bad it was. Then I realized it was tongue-in-cheek, particularly when an exaggerated transvestite resembling Jenny McCarthy made her way around the room kissing all the men, including Patrick (see Phanfare photos, whenever I manage to post them).

Staying at a resort for close to a week, you begin to label the varied cast of characters . There were several wedding parties. The first wedding had a groom in rolled-up white pants who smoked a cigarette all the way up the aisle. (The aisle consisted of the path from the pool, past our bungalow, to a smaller beach at the end of the cove.) The second wedding was the most striking. Thai dancers and singers accompanied the bridal party, and the groomsmen all wore kilts. There was a large party of rowdy Brits, and I mistook a loud, homely brunette for the bride. Turns out she was the bride in a separate group of loud Brits.

The larger group of Brits offered continual entertainment. There was Fishface, a brute with lips more exaggerated than Mick Jagger's. There was Skinny Prat who turned out to be the groom. The bride was blond and loud. Best of all there was Spinal Tap--a middle-aged man with a bad rocker's shoulder-length haircut--and his wife, whose leathery, overtanned skin made her look about two decades older than him. Both were chain smokers, and we swear when they went swimming, they let out a low groan and a puff of smoke. 

There was a Scandinavian family with two young daughters, older than Sam. They had a plastic tea set, with which they graciously let Sam play. One day, though, they weren't at the pool, so Pat told Sam he'd try to get a cup from the pool boy, whom Pat referred to as "the guy." Now, Sam calls everyone "the guy." For example, when we got back, our a/c filters needed to be cleaned. Sam narrated: "the guy's on the ladder;" he points to every taxi driver saying, "the guy," and so on. 

The staff was not exempt. The bar/restaurant manager looked like the Asian version of Jonah Hill, thus aptly nicknamed "Superbad." There was the pretty-boy waiter whose name tag read, "Donny," and whom we called "Donny." 

The resort was not without its flaws. Some of the service was spotty, but overall it was exactly what we wanted and we were sorry to pack our bags.

Vacation ended like a ton of bricks. The day after our return, we received an email informing us that the apartment we had arranged to rent in Paris was being sold and, therefore, no longer available. With less than three weeks until our departure, we tailspun into panic. 

We've spent the last week staying up late every night, scouring the Internet for reasonably-priced, furnished two-bedrooms in the center of Paris, calling rental agencies, and pulling our hair in exasperation. We think (hope) we have found a place, but French bureaucracy being what it is, we know not to rest easy until we have a signed lease, and even then, until we have keys in hand and have moved in. We leave in nine days...on verra.