France vs USA

Living in a different country opens your mind to a different culture and challenges your deepest assumptions and expectations. More importantly it lets you complain about how backward and strange non-American's are. After five months in France, here are some head-to-head ratings for the differences that most caught our attention. Each country will get a one to five rating (1=horrible, 5=heavenly) and we'll add it up at the end to see who wears the red white and blue better.

Our kids in front of the  Château de Chambord, the inspiration for the Disney castle in Beauty and the Beast. 

1. Toilets
I can count on one hand the number of free public toilets we have found since we moved here. Also, French toilets are plagued with issues of splashback (and I'm not talking about bidets). I don't know if this is from the design of the toilet or has something to do with our supercharged American metabolisms, but in either case nothing can ruin a good evacuation like a cold backsplash. There is also a charming French custom of doing away with the toilet seat, leaving you to sit directly on the porcelain altar.

France: 1.2

America: 4.9

2. Artisanal everything
Painters, bakers, snail farmers, plumbers. As far as I can tell everyone is an artisan here.

France: 5

America: 2

3. American holidays
The French have started celebrating Halloween (along with the Catholic Toussaint), but it doesn't have the same epic momentum it has in the States. This year clown outfits were banned after some tricksters decked out in clown digs killed some people, and the one house we trick-or-treated told us they didn't celebrate Halloween because it was a satanic holiday. On the other hand we had one of our best Thanksgivings ever with over 40 people, delicious pumpkin pie, and a tiny turkey taken before its time (the French eat turkey at Christmas). Given the gradual descent into overt materialism most of our holidays are experiencing in the States, I'm calling it a draw.

France: 3.1

America: 3.1

Wait, they don't trick-or-treat here?

4. Greetings/Farewells
I have been amazed at how much attention the French pay to hellos and goodbyes. At most any social engagement (work, church, parties, etc) everyone says hi and goodbye to each other individually.

"Bonjour André-Jean"
"Salut Ben"
"Bonjour Alain-Hervé"
"Bonjour Ben"
"Salut Martine"
"Salut Ben"

In general I've been surprised at how social and involved in each other's lives my French colleagues and friends are. Everyone leaves their office doors open and if you try to eat your lunch alone people get worried and call a meeting on "l'amelioration de l'integration." I haven't been around long enough to say whether all the involvement leads to meaningful communalism or just the appearance of democracy but so far it has seemed genuine.

Oh yeah, and did you know they kiss each other here? From a hygiene perspective the bisous beats the handshake but it does feel a little weird at the beginning. We still don't know if your lips are supposed to touch the other person's cheeks or not but we just pull the foreigner card if we creep anyone out.

France: 3.5

USA: 3.2

5. Healthcare
All legal residents of France are promised healthcare with 70% of medical costs covered for everyday visits and 100% coverage for pregnancy-related and serious or chronic problems. Rachel was seven months pregnant when we arrived in France so we've tested out the system over a dozen times for her and the wee baby. Before we were issued our health cards we payed full cost for all visits and analyses and then sent in the receipts for reimbursement. At our 8-month doctors appointment and ultrasound, when the technician learned we didn't have our health cards yet he hesitated before telling us the price.

"Are you sure you want to pay now, it is pretty expensive."

"How much is it?"

"Fifty euros."

"I think we'll pay now."

He didn't realize that almost without exception, paying the whole bill has been less than our copay would have been in the US. The treatment, equipment, and quality of care has been great (though Rachel can't get over the fact that even doctors don't speak English here). The health care debate will have to wait for a different blog post but this article on the history of socialised medicine in the States is pretty rad.

France: 4.5

USA: 2.7

6. Food
Who knew there were enough varieties of yoghurt to fill four aisles at the grocery store? Who knew that you don't need to refrigerate eggs and milk (UHT milk at least)? Who knew that mixing straw and goat's milk then rolling it in oakwood ash made delicious, nutty, chalky cheese? It's not that we don't like American food. We miss Mexican food and wild Alaskan fare. It's just that they really know how to cook and eat here. French food is simple and engrossing. A few ingredients combined to maximum deliciousness. French eating is involved. A few hours spent for maximum deliciousness.

France: 5

USA: 4

7. Counting system

How do you say 70? Sixty-ten, of course. How do you say 80? Four-twenty, of course. How do you say 99? Four-twenty-nineteen . . . of course? 

Though they invented the intuitive metric system, it turns out the French couldn't get on the same side of the fence with their counting. The current system is an unhappy compromise of base-10 and base-20 counting. Not only does the system baffle foreigners, it also wreaks havoc with the exchange of phone numbers. Even for native speakers, if someone says sixty, seventy, or four you hesitate before writing anything down just in case some addition or multiplication follows. French math teachers reaffirmed their support of the system after World War II stating it was useful "for facilitating the learning of calculations." For an awesome official response to many questions about eccentricities of French check out the question and answer section of the Académie française.

France: 2

USA: 4.9 (minus 0.1 for eleven and twelve)

There are at least another seven items on our list so we'll have to continue the head-to-head next time. For now here is the subtotal:

France: 24.3

USA: 24.8

And two reminders of our shared history and common future.

How to (and how not to) move a family of 4.5 from Alaska to France

I defended my dissertation on Monday August 4th. Back to the lab for three days to finish up some final experiments before our flight to Frankfurt on Thursday.

Ingrid and Henry say goodbye to their Alaska cousins.

Bikes and caribou antlers. Next time I will break down the bikes before the morning of the flight. Thanks to the Dixons for buying our car a month in advance and then letting us keep using it!

The Giannis helped us get our stuff to the airport, graciously waiting while I ductaped the bike boxes stuffed with bikes and strollers.

It's around 8 hours from Alaska to Germany, over the north coast of Greenland.

On Friday, ten time zones from home, we napped in Frankfurt for a few hours before the flight to Paris.

German ice cream is my favorite.

Since Ingrid and Henry each got a free checked bag and we filled them with extra necessities (think Playmobil nativity set and both the French and English versions of Le Petit Prince). It wasn't until I saw the pile in the Paris baggage claim that I started to wonder about getting everything from the airport to the train station with two kids and a pregnant Rachel.

Two hours of box and bag dragging later a friendly ticket-lady told me there weren't any seats on the train to Rennes. "But don't worry monsieur, there is a departure in an hour and a half that leaves from the Montparnasse station across town. You can just take that train." Crestfallen, we dragged our belongings to the nearest hotel (much faster with some help from a good samaritan from Ukraine) and collapsed for the night.

Much revived, we went back to the station to catch the train Saturday afternoon. 

"They don't announce the train platform until 15 minutes before departure. If you are in a hurry, don't take the elevator," our new ticket-lady told us. Against her advice, we tried to take the elevator. After waiting for 13 minutes as the forsaken machine erratically opened and closed, we cut our losses and I chucked the bike boxes and suitcases down the escalator. On the platform I tucked Henry under my arm like a pigskin and and sprinted seven TGV car lengths. We stuffed the stuff into the train as the whistle blew.

In the end it was good that we hadn't gotten tickets on the Friday night train because there is no way all of our stuff would have fit.

It is just over two hours from Paris to Rennes.

It is nice to be a child.

Two of the three van taxis in Rennes happened to be at the train station when we arrived and we filled them both up to the hilt. My colleague Jean-Raynald offered to let us stay at his place in Rennes. He had mailed the keys to Alaska because he and his family were away on vacation the day of our arrival. We found the house, unpacked the taxes, and I cried a little bit.

Ingrid made her self at home.

Hanging out in the back yard with Jean-Raynald after he got home.

"Ingrid, I love your scarf. Where did you get that?"

"I found it on the sidewalk."

"Riding on the bus is just like taking an airplane, only you are a little bit lower."

So here is our list of things to do differently when moving a family of 4.5 from Alaska to France:

• Gorilla tape the bike boxes and put an extra piece of cardboard in the bottom for those times when you might need to drag them 5-20 km.
• When changing continents, pack at least one day in advance.
• Buy your train tickets before you get to the station.
• Listen to the ticket lady. The elevator smells of tin and urine anyway.
• Take two fewer bags.
• Don't bring two bikes, a bike trailer, and a stroller.

And here is the list of things to do the same:

• Take your family with you on your adventures.
• Let the kids help.
• Don't buy your train tickets before you get to the station (if it is going to sell out it won't have room for your stuff).
• Trust strangers.
• Speak the language (at least a little bit).
• Dance in the train station.

All in all we feel incredibly blessed that the trip went as smoothly as it did. Ingrid and Henry were so well behaved they earned ice cream for the rest of our time here so come and stay with us so you can have some too.

Early arrival

Wednesday was a blustery day.

Red in the morning sailor's warning.

Rachel had been having irregular contractions since about 1am so I dropped Ingrid off at school and Henry and I went to get some last minute supplies (extra yogurt flavors, crepes, slippers, branch pruners, toilet paper, and salad dressing).

The arrival of the mucous plug at noon announced that the baby had confirmed its ticket. Ingrid just had a half-day at school so our neighbor Gaetane brought her home briefly to say goodbye to Rachel and the surging baby bump and to pick up Henry. Like usual, they gave lots of kisses . . .

and then sprinted out the door. "Next time you see Mommy the baby will be here"! Gaetane and Sylvie took care of them all evening and into the next day. It's good to have good friends (nearby and across town).

Rachel was calm and focused for the next couple hours and we prepared the house between surges (it's hippy but I do like that term better than contraction). She had a list of things left to do:

                    1. Clean the bathtub 

                    2. Sweep the floor

                    3. Put the shower curtain under the bedsheet

                    4. Eat some canned peaches in light sirop

I was planning on documenting the labor more closely so I could overshare dimly-lit, bare-chested photos on my blog and Facebook, but by 3pm things cranked up to 11 and there was no time. I was on the phone between surges finalizing the arrangements for the kids and accomplishing other essential tasks (eBay and Clash of Clans). Rachel was less than happy sharing my attention and gasped at the end of a particularly heavy wave, "Throw the window out the phone right now." I didn't correct her syntax but reminded her that we still needed to call our midwife Emmanuelle. I did so at 3:56.

Rachel lost her waters (as they say in French) at 4:04 and I gave Emmanuelle another ring to check on her 10-20. She was lost in front of a home furnishings store. Life is hard when your address isn't indexed on Google Maps. Rachel was feeling pretty overwhelmed at this point and the surges were feeling more like contractions. "I just want Emmanuelle to be here, I am really resisting the contractions."

At 4:34 Emmanuelle arrived - half Mary Poppins half Mata Hari - in a fitted orange corduroy jacket with an oversized duffel bag. She slipped into our bedroom and kissed both of our cheeks. She checked the baby's heart-rate and gave us a reassuring smile to know all was well. Rachel was at 7-8 cm but the baby was still high.

The next two hours were like a strange grown-up version of ring-around-the-rosy. Rachel preferred to take the surges on her feet, but desperately wanted to lie down between labors. She would nestle in the pillows while Emmanuelle and I caressed her back and belly and then would announce "UP" when a surge was a few seconds out. We would heft her onto her feet, dance and sing together, and then collapse back onto the bed. Rachel became increasingly more determined and less and less fearful. It was amazing to watch her talk herself through the hard moments and communicate with the baby. We were praying and Emmanuelle told us afterwards she was asking for help from on high as well.

By 6:30 the baby was working with us and Rachel was almost completely open. We were on our knees leaning on the bed. Emmanuelle said there was still a lip of cervix left, which she explained was "best to leave there and let it happen on its own, but if you want I can help it over the baby's head. If so I'll have to leave my fingers in there during a contraction." Rachel bared the white of her eyes and said, "Give me some time to think. I've got to get my head around it first." I figured the upside-down metaphor was a sign and we didn't suggest it again.

The sunrise didn't lie and the weather was dramatic with strong wind and pulses of rain. There are lots of such days that pass without remark, but when a baby is being born it seems like a sign. Our little birthing room was warm and humid, a womb protected from the tempest outside. We got into a good rhythm with me jiggling Rachel's rump (her idea for the record) and the baby moved through the birth passage in just a few minutes.

At 7:11 a baby stuck its head out. At 7:12 a baby slipped into my arms. It was a boy baby with dark hair. He gave a little squeak and opened his eyes. Emmanuelle rubbed his back, I kissed his face, and Rachel talked to him. He let out a cough and some gentle cries and we wrapped him in my t-shirt and a towel. 

Mommy was relieved he was here and baby was calm and zen.

I had to get at least one dimly lit family pic in here.

3.8 kilos, 37 cm head, and 55 cm long (who knows what that means in real units but whatever).

The next morning I picked up Henry and Ingrid from the Patea's so they could meet their brother.

Ingrid was hoping for a sister but after she met the little man she said, "Oh well"!

"You need to hold his head and neck cause it's floppy," Ingrid explained to Henry.

Henry was concerned about his "pumice" until we explained it was just his umbilical cord.

Hanging out never felt so good.

That's how I felt too.

Ingrid and Henry gave (lent) him their favorite stuffed animal.

Milk cartons and cheap flowers instead of cigars.

Thanks to all who lent a hand or a thought from near or far.