adventures with my baby: rabbit, jetlag, and racism

So I got to J&G’s apartment a lot later than I’d imagined but quickly got my priorities straight again and began running our bath. J had left us a lovely note and some metro tickets. JP arrived. Once out of the bath, C began to fuss. I considered myself very lucky at this point, because she could have become fussy at any point earlier but kept it to a minimum. She was saying “Mommy, after our bath at home we go to sleep at home. Why aren’t we there?” or something similar. So, I thought it wise to take a nap. I was also completely exhausted myself; so I set the alarm for 2 hours.

JP prepared us a lovely dinner of “aioli” which is to say: steamed fish and veggies (including artichoke) with flavored mayonnaise. And of course we enjoyed my two favorite beverages: kir (to start) and red wine. For the cheese course, I contributed several local California options from Cowgirl Creamery which disappointed no one (much better than the time I brought wine from Napa Valley but maybe they were just being polite). For dessert, we had a range of amazing and indulgent French pastries: the religiouse (sp? basically stacked round éclairs) and a raspberry tart.

C and I slept 11 to 11 – rock on, team. She then proceeded to take her usual 2 morning naps during the second of which I wrote the previous post. We finally left the house around 2p and walked along the viaduct des arts with many others including lots of children. I spent a long time looking for a bench in the shade but with the long winters, Parisiens worship the sun or so the landscape architects assume. A not-very-young man approached us to do a photo shoot in his studio for a school project he was working on. I let him take our photo and took his card. I wonder if he’s going to have any luck with that – who would bring their young child into a stranger’s photo studio? (It’s like the night a stranger followed us home because C was crying and wanted to come in to help me sooth her. Like that would be good parenting.) But I fell in love with all the flowers along the viaduct.

I helped 3 Korean tourists who understood no French at all (but spoke English) find the billetteria at the Opera Bastille.

Then I popped into a children’s clothing store. The salesman said something to me I didn’t understand. Then he said “You want help with something?” I said “no, thank you.”
“What country are you from?”
“Etats Unis”
“Then you have to leave because I am Muslim.”
“I’m from San Francisco where we love all religions.” I said, turning away, as his companion tried to save the conversation by telling me that I didn’t have to leave and he isn’t Muslim. He went on to say what a beautiful city San Francisco is and how expensive it is to have a car there.

Interestingly, J told me we would see in Mallorca a celebration of dispelling the Muslims from the island which of course sounds terribly racist. It turns out it’s the celebration of a Masada-like event where they defended themselves against Turkish pirates. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Paris is filled with children of all ages, it seems, unlike San Francisco. We stopped in Place des Vosges and I enjoyed watching dozens of children playing in a big sand box. C got a break from the carrier. I wondered what it would be like, from a very American perspective, to go to college and tell your classmates that you played in the sand in Place des Vosges as a small child. Of course, these children probably grow up together and end up at universities with each other. So playing as a child in such a remarkable place will give them no cache.

With so many diaper blowouts in a row (4) I decided to invest in the next size up long before using up the ones we had. She weighs 15lbs which is well inside the current range, but I guess she has a large bottom or something. Getting more diapers involved finding a natural (bio) grocery store, which turned out to be surprisingly easy. I asked J later, and she said that yes, organic is all the rage. I also apparently forgot my baby soap, but that I got bio at Monoprix.

The thought of riding the metro at rush hour with a baby made me very uncomfortable. So, we found a bus, also crowded, and rode it back. Someone did kindly give us a seat and I loaded baby, backpack and huge pack of compostable diapers onto my lap.

C slept fine that night – she seems to except for the small matter of getting her to go to sleep. I woke up at 4 and finally got out of bed at 8a.

It was a quiet day as we were flying that evening to Mallorca. We walked around the block, ate some pastries, had lunch with J at home, and headed to the airport at 4p. A friend of JP’s picked us up at the airport – apparently no one bothers with carseats around here. So we sit in the back and I strap her into her carrier as tight as I can. Of course we prefer to walk or ride the bus anyway.

The next day was J’s birthday. C and I slept until 1p. I finally agreed to get out of bed because I could hear and smell wonderful things cooking: paella! My special lady friend isn’t yet on solid foods, and paella would certainly be the wrong kind for a 5-month-old anyway, but she stuck her hand right into it which of course made her quite upset (the only other time she’s done this was with Thai soup at the Thai Buddhist temple brunch in Berkeley though she’s reached for my room-temperature food before).

The paella had a range of seafood in it, all recognizable, and some other kind of meat. Through an internal process of elimination, I asked “is this rabbit?” it was. J said “I’m sorry. We should have told you.” Now, I am not a fussy eater. I despise that sort of thing (though of course am always respectful of other people’s choices). J had called me a “warrior” just the night before in that regard, which I think must be a normal thing to call someone in French. She knew I wouldn’t mind, but it’s always nice to be informed of what you’re eating.

It’s now 4a again, and C is fast asleep beside me. I guess I’ll give it a try, and catch you up at my next opportunity.