I always find myself in a group of people who wind up rolling their eyes whenever I decide to vocalize something I was fairly certain everyone was already thinking. Sure I have a "Dirty Mind," but these days, how can you not?
In a Social context, this type of observation usually has about as much grace as Rosie O’Donnell ice skating with a jet engine duct taped to her head.[ed. note: I’m sorry, Rosie.I don’t know you.Maybe you skate well.I have no way of knowing.]But in a Comedic context, I have about 100% accuracy.To me.Because I think I’m hysterical.And in the end, that’s what really counts.
So maybe I don’t have that censor sitting in my brain waiting to hit the bleep button, and maybe, often, the world would be a better place if my thoughts were telecast with a 5 second delay.It would certainly be more decent.
So here’s your chance.I won’t spoil it.And you can sit and enjoy whatever G-Rated images float through the theater in your mind.
Our stay in the Munich Hauptbahnhof lasted about an hour, long enough for us to order a couple of mutated cheese-filled croissants, obviously the result of years of German Pastry inbreeding. Then we walked over to get our tickets to Benediktbeuern (which means Knife-sharpening Bavarian Hunchback, or something similar), where the farm was.
Contrasting sharply from the chaos that filled the SNCF ticket offices of Paris, I immediately felt a sense of calm and order.
You meet with a helpful information agent (who speaks English), who cheerfully instructs you where to proceed.
You take a number, and wait comfortably on one of the 12 upholstered benches.
[You also notice there aren't any black people, but, well, this is still Germany we're talking about]
When I eventually made it to my agent (who also spoke English), I outlined the several trips I needed help with. He printed detailed instructions for all of them: timetables for each trip, for each stop on the trip, and all the stations in between. Then he gave me an option for the return trip up to Köln.
HIM: This one, here, only has 1 connection, instead of the earlier one, which has 6.
ME: Well, yeah. One connection sounds much easier. And that one leaves at?
HIM: 8:32.
ME: Okay, so we'll only have a twenty minute wait before the train at 8:30...
HIM: Two.
ME: Hmm?
HIM: Two. The train is at eight-thirty-two.
He even circled it on the paper, like a Safari Guide showing you "Here is where it's safe to swim...Over here? This is where all the crocodiles are."
Leni thought it would be fun to stay on a farm in Germany (before our home-exchange near Köln).
Roxy absolutely loves animals. I absolutely love hauling 3 suitcases, a stroller, a bag of f**king snacks that never gets any lighter, and a toddler all over Europe, so, what the hell, it seemed a perfect fit.
We had already bought Eurail Passes, so train would be our preferred method of travel. And because we're Americans, we thought it would be no problem whatsoever to book our tickets at the last minute. And by we I mean my wife. As it turned out, the only room we could get on the overnight train to Munich had 6 beds in it, 3 of which were occupied.
I asked the ticket agent if he thought it would be uncomfortable for us, as a family, to share a room with complete strangers.
He puffed his cheeks out, expelling air out of his mouth in that very French way that means "I'm thinking" and "how the f**k should I know?" at the same time.
"Non," he replied. Except it sounded like "Non?"
Which meant if the bunks were any bit as accommodating as the bathrooms [that picture is to scale, by the way, of the WC on the train], we were totally screwed, non?
On our way back from Normandy, we stopped along the highway for lunch at a French McDonald's.
It had touch-screen kiosks, like ATM's, where you could order your food.
It had a cafe, where you could order actual pastries and cappuccino.
And it had a McDonald Land Playland your kid could leave little poops all over, like some scatological Easter Egg Hunt where even in you win, you lose.
You see, Potty Training Roxy entails asking her if she needs to use the potty, then taking her to the bathroom if the answer is yes.
If we are distracted, Roxy will usually come up to us and say "peepees in the potty," which means "I'm about to pee in my pants. Let's get a move on, people."
Except, on this particular day, Roxy came up to us to say "Doggy on the slide!"
Now, if you have kids, you know they frequently come up to you to inform you of, pardon the harsh tone, meaningless bulls**t. "Stop-a-stop," "tinkerbell pancake," "One! Two! Six! Blue!" These are all previous News Flashes Roxy has felt compelled to share with us.
And as there clearly wasn't an actual dog loose on the playground, I went back to my lunch.
Roxy repeated it. Only now, we noticed she didn't say doggy. She said cocky.
"What does 'cocky on the slide' mean?" I asked.
Sensing trouble, Leni spun Roxy around; it looked like someone had poured an entire bag of Peanut M&M's into her underpants. M&M's someone had sucked the candy-coated-shell off of. And underpants that were clearly about to surrender all of their elasticity in protest. The nightmare was about to get worse.
So while Leni rushed Roxy into the bathroom to do damage control, I casually strolled over to the play structure to see if we had dodged a bullet. Or bullets, as it were.
Not a chance.
And that's how, on our last day in France, I found myself exploring a McDonald Land Playland, crawling around with an empty French Fry cup in my hand, retracing Roxy's steps, and scooping up the trail along the way.
Julien’s sons [who, coincidentally, are also Julien's wife Nina's sons, whose name I put in bold lest she think I was, once again, unfairly omitting her contribution/s] are two of the most adorable kids on the planet. And I’m not just saying that because they followed me around all the time, saluting me and called me “Chef” [meaning “Boss"]. Though, I must admit, it is nice to be recognized by your peers.
Maxim, who is 5 ½, happens to be missing all 4 of his front teeth, apparently having lost each in the same amount of consecutive days. And if you thought French was difficult enough to understand coming from adults, from a 5 year old with a lisp it’s virtually impossible.
I spent most of the time picking up rocks and sticks, then telling Maxim I had found one of his teeth. This would usually send him running off giggling, sparing me the embarrassment of having to eventually explain that he already knew more French than I did. Or asking to borrow one of his books.
During lunch one day, the conversation at the table landed on exactly what happens to baby teeth in America. Where we explained the entirely plausible scenario of a fairy sneaking into your room and removing said tooth, leaving a small recompense in its place. Because, you know, that's what really happens.
“Yes, we have something similar…in France…we have a little mouse,” said Julien.
“A mouse?” I asked.
“The Tooth Mouse.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” I said.
“Why? We have a Tooth Fairy,” added Leni, offering Julien an ally at the table.
“Right: a magical creature. Not some rat. What does the mouse do with it?”
And with no embellishment, like he was giving directions to the Post Office, he continued: “He…takes the teeth and, in the morning, there is a bit of money.”
“And no one finds it disconcerting that a mouse has some huge collection of human teeth somewhere?”
“Look,” Julien smiled, “I get money. I don’t ask any questions.”
For Bastille Day (July 14th), we went up to stay at my childhood friend Julien’s parents’ house up in Normandy.And while fireworks aren’t technically “legal” on the day of French independence, they are tolerated.And not just by the authorities.All of France washes their hands of any responsibility whatsoever as legions of people, from 6 to 60, try their hand at handheld incendiary devices and aiming them at their compatriots.
Meaning?They will literally hurl fireworks at each other without so much as a shrug in response.They’re more likely to get annoyed at the British couple trying to use their bathroom than the 12 year old who just rolled an M-80 under their stroller.“Non, non, pas un problem, ma petite…”
Rockets, Firecrackers, Really Loud Exploding Things No Civilian In Any Country Should Have Access To Especially If He’s Wearing A Purse…These all get hurled into the sky, fuses lit, creating a situation where it is impossible to predict where they will come down and explode.It’s like the Russian Roulette of Apathy, because doing anything to prevent it would involve exerting far more energy [any energy > no energy = too much energy] than simply squeezing your eyes closed and hoping for the best, a tactic they’ve honed since WWII.
But I must admit, there is an inevitable pull, a primal urge that overcomes every man, the invisible thread connecting him across the millennia to his ancestors who, spear clasped tightly in their hands, decided it would be cool to blow some s**t up despite how dangerous their wives thought it was.
Fashion really has been an important cultural export of France, dating back to the 17th century. Modern "haute couture;" extravagant uses of fabric and feminine elegance; as the virtual epicenter of trending and style, Paris has long since been considered one of the world's fashion capitals. If not the fashion capital.
So suck on it, New York. Because by the time you read this, you'll be wearing last year's Hamster costume, eyeing those tiered organza silk Taco Suits dotting the pages of French Vogue with envy.
At several points in my life, I've had to recognize and accept I have some significant cognitive limitations. Economics. Salsa Dancing. When To Use Sarcasm. These are things that have remained elusive to comprehend and impossible to process. They fall into the same black hole a person's name does when they introduce themselves. I could look you right in the eye, repeat your name right back to you, but my brain most definitely didn't register any sound. So unless you're wearing a name tag, to me, you'll always be "Señor."
One of those limitations is also Adapting Electrical Currency in foreign countries.
Somehow, last year, I fried my iPhone in Geneva. It got really hot, then kept turning off and on, as if I had downloaded an App to simulate what would happen if Roxy continuously sat on it (well, it died).
So this year I was determined not to repeat the disaster. I brought along an American powerstrip, thinking that I could plug my iPhone, computer, and whatever else into it without a problem. I just had to adapt the plug from an American male to the Two Pronged French fangs of electrical death. Which I did, quite easily.
Clearly, there was some Math involved that I had overlooked. The powerstrip exploded in my hand, a bright blast of sparks shooting out from inside the plastic, black burns streaking my palms.
Except, it wasn't until I looked up that I realized I had blown the entire wall out. Everything was dead. Everything. All the lights. All the electronics. The computer. The television. Every expensive electronic device these people owned and had entrusted us to use while we stayed in their apartment, were all now quite possibly garbage.
Leni turned away from the black void of the monitor, eyes like daggers.
I half smiled, and said "Well, at least I'm alive..."
Chivalry (n.): the sum of the ideal qualifications of a knight, including courtesy, generosity, valour, and dexterity in arms.
If you zoom into that picture up there, you'll see a tiny red dot. Keep that in mind. Because I wanted to give you an idea of the distance I had to travel in order to secure 2 metal lawn chairs.
Tonight, we saw a free Chopin concert in Le Jardin du Luxembourg. It was rumored about 5,000 people would be in attendance, so, this being France, not only did we want a good spot, we wanted one with a healthy breeze. I'm sorry, France, but the rumors are true. You smell terrible.
It became immediately clear that in order to sit, we would have to find several of the metal chairs scattered at multitude about the park, and carry them over towards the concert. As Leni and I were already on the verge of an argument (it's a simple formula, really: low blood sugar + Roxy crying + being inconvenienced in any way), we were about to bail. But I decided to try and salvage things by getting a few seats so we could relax and enjoy the concert.
The "O" is where I found them. I pretty much yanked them out from under the feet of a German couple. The "X" is where I had to deliver them, which I did, three days later.
I guess the Parisian Parks Commission don't worry about anyone stealing those chairs because each one weighs about 900 lbs. They may as well have pianos for people to sit on. I had to stop 3 or 4 times just to get them back to Leni (and I carry furniture for a living), each time fighting off the jackals and vultures of tourists trying to pry my fingers off of them.
And when the amount of frustration with Roxy eventually outweighed our enjoyment of Chopin, we decided to leave. It's hard to listen to the Barcarolle, Op. 60 when your daughter is throwing gravel at an old Italian woman.
I noticed a young woman leaning against a nearby tree. She held a young girl of 2 or 3 in her arms, the little one squirming and fidgeting to get free. And she seemed very, very tired. So I went over to her before Leni stood up. I asked, in French, "Madame, would you like our chairs? We are leaving..."
The relief washed over her face; she politely stepped a bit closer to us as we gathered our things. And as we finally packed up, I motioned for her to help herself.
She quickly sat, her child still in her arms, sinking into the metal chair. And as she held her daughter aloft, finagling the toddler's legs over the arm rest, just about to place her in the adjacent seat...
Some nearby men leaned over, pulled the chair out from beneath the child, and dragged it back towards their group without another thought.
And had I the dexterity in my arms to keep Roxy quiet and Leni and I from resuming our argument, I would have liked to get my chair back. When he was hopefully sitting in it.
Here's a question: Barbie comes over to your house and says at home (ahem, Dream House) there's a tiny can of soup Ken is having trouble opening, but because Ken is insecure about all of his fingers being fused together (as well as his height and non-descript genital mound), she doesn't want you to open it. Instead she wants to borrow a can opener. Except, and more importantly, [INSERT YOUR NAME HERE], do you have one in miniature? Well, if you live in France, you're goddamn right you do! Because they sell these everywhere!
The people who live in this apartment have a Wii. A PC. An electric keyboard and a washing machine. Like they won a bunch of crap on Wheel of Fortune and at the end, when Pat Sajak broke the bad news they only had 1.75 euros left, they took the miniature can opener. "I'll take the piece of s**t that cuts your thumbs open."
If you walked into a hardware store and said "I want the most dangerously awkward thing you sell to open cans except I don't actually want it to work. I want it to slice all of my fingers off." He'd hold up a Tasmanian Devil with chainsaws tied to its face. "No, no, it has to fit in my pocket..." you'd offer as a correction. And then he'd hand you that thing in the picture.
Let's say you like to do laundry, but people keep stealing your jeans from the dryer. What do you do? Didn't you see The Goonies? You make Booby Traps! You rig a drying rack to a pulley that hangs above people's heads in the bathroom. Then you rig the rope to a hook that is fastened at eye level. Because you want people to think they can lower it. Because while their attention is on the laundry, they aren't expecting the rack to clip the clasp on the cabinet above them. They aren't expecting a 12" tall Buzz Lightyear to sidesaddle an iron down onto their head. Because, seriously, who the f**k is EVER expecting that?!!
Jetlag does wonders for a toddler. Everything they say about the "Terrible Twos" gets shaken up with equal parts Volatility and Tears and then spilled in your lap while accidentally set on fire. All the weapons at your disposal, every dance, every snack or sugary bribe, that whole "Bag of Tricks" you have to keep them quiet suddenly becomes ineffective, leaving you with just one: the iPad.
I've listened to Selena Gomez sing some god-awful song from the Tinkerbell movie a million times, now. And by "Selena Gomez" I mean "future whore" and by "sing" I mean "shove a bagpipe with a family of raccoons living in it up her nose and sneeze for 3:17 secs" and by "Tinkerbell Movie" I mean "Did Hitler team up with Leni Riefenstahl again because this film destroyssouls?!"
But I can't just let her scream at 4 AM in some other family's apartment. I can't. And so Tinkerbell. And tears. And utter, utter exhaustion.
The point is that we've been Potty Training Roxy. I'll tell you how some other time. But she's 2 and doesn't wear diapers. Except to sleep. Except in France she hasn't been sleeping so we haven't been sleeping and with the time change and Selena Gomez and making sure she doesn't break anything in the apartment we've been staying at, we've had a few accidents. Like when we all fell asleep in our bed at 6 AM yesterday morning.
Roxy wet the bed. And because I was heaviest, it all pooled towards me.
I used to be clean. I was meticulous. I never thought about wiping anyone's nose, not only with my sleeve, but are you f**king kidding me, a bare finger? Gross! I never said to myself, "It's just poop." I never picked food off the floor and wondered "What's the worst that could be on there?" And I certainly never expected to let my daughter finish swallowing whatever it was she was eating even though I knew goddamn well I didn't give her anything to eat at the park and figure "Ah, go build your immune system."
But mostly, I never thought I'd reach the day I'd be so tired that I'd wake up, find myself in a pool full of urine, someone else's urine, mind you, and think "Well, if I don't move it will stay warm..." and gently fall back to sleep.
I guess I just figured that if anyone can use my frequent missteps as a cautionary tale, or the very least, the comical equivalent of March 17th from the 1998 The Far Side calendar "How Nature Says 'Do Not Touch!" I should start blogging again.
Because god forbid some Celiac American is riding on the Paris Metro worried about s**ting his pants because he suddenly gets the cold sweats and stumbles into a seat because he is about to literally pass out leaving his non-French-speaking family to have the following conversation without him:
LENI: Sweetheart, wake up! Wake up, baby! How do you say 'ambulance?'
... when all he had to remember was to actually eat, which he might know if he read my humble little blog.
So maybe you can take some small to moderate level schadenfreude when I tell you the last thought I had right before I went down was "Please, god, please don't let me s**t my pants while I'm unconscious!"
Because God, being wise and all-knowing, looked down and said "Do not worry, my child...I'll wait 'til you're awake.
This may be one of the first actual factual blog posts to ever grace the pages of "Daddy Is An Idiot" so Leni and I decided to do it together. The Sterbenz Family has just braved the streets and sights of Paris with two kids and lived to tell the tale. So here is our family-friendly guide to Paris. What to see, what to miss, and what to run screaming away from. Here we go:
Tips about Paris with Kids:
Paris is one of the most stroller-unfriendly cities in the world (2nd to Amundsen-Scott Research Station on the South Pole). The sidewalks are narrow and cobblestoned, the people will bump into your stroller and not think twice, or flick ashes into it. Strollers are also hard to fit on the subway, and they are not allowed at many popular tourist attractions causing you to have to carry it. We are not suggesting that you leave your travel stroller at home. Just make sure to bring one that collapses easily and think about bringing along a carrier if you have a toddler.
Snacks and meals are sometimes hard to come by and with time changing kids it can be close to impossible to find something to eat. Paris fruit markets are plentiful and can be a good solution for a healthy snack. Stock up on fresh fruit at a fruit stand in case one of the kids needs a food fix while you are in an unfamiliar neighborhood.
Highchairs are few and far between. When sitting at a Brasserie or café be prepared to sit your little ones on your lap.
Tips for Americans:
Don’t take it personally, they hate the British, too.And the reason is Presumption.Every day, English-speaking tourists come to France, and for some reason, insist on addressing the French in a foreign language.Imagine how you would feel if a bunch of Germans got annoyed at you when you didn’t know what they were talking about.Then multiply that by a billion.Here’s what I do: In French, with as good an accent as I can muster, I say “Do you speak English?Because my French really isn’t very good.”And then keep trying to speak French.They’ll appreciate it, and will honestly be more interested in helping you.You have to remember that you’re the a**hole, here, not them.
Also, for iPhone users, download the following apps: Metro Paris and Smart Maps Paris.Both offer online and offline functionality, which means you can find what street you are on or what train you should connect to without having to worry about 3G or 4G or whatever wi-fi network you were depending on.The former allows route planning as well as isolating individual Metro and RER lines (as well as the bus if you’re feeling brave).The latter has a zoom function like Google Maps, bus and metro stops, and a searchable street index.Want to not feel like a tourist?These will help byteloads…That’s right, I said “byteloads.”If there was an app that notified you when someone told a terrible joke on planet Earth, there would be a little red pin blinking in Switzerland.
Where to Stay:
Despite Rodney’s loud objections and concerns of being thrown into human trafficking (he had just watched Taken, so…), it is quite common for the French to rent out their apartments in the summer while they are away on holiday. We found our apartment on Craigslist.com for 70 Euro a night, beating any hotel or B&B in Paris with a stick. We had a kitchen, laundry, and 2 bedrooms all to ourselves but best of all, we really felt like locals. It gave us the space we needed and the experience we wanted for a great price.
Not the stuffed animals that you are thinking of however, Deyrolle is the most spectacularly awesome taxidermy shop ever.Downstairs it looks like a Provencal gardening boutique.Don’t be fooled.Just smile, ask to leave your stroller downstairs, and head on up. As you ascend the stairs a Rhino head will greet you and you'll be welcomed to the most expansive collection of animals that we have ever seen. The kids loved it.
Deyrolle 46 Rue de Bac, 75007 Paris
Luxembourg Gardens Playground
Like most of Paris’ hundreds of parks, Luxembourg has free wi-fi, grassy areas for kids to run around, and a baby play park in the Northeast corner.Near the Marrionette Theater is another play park for older kids that has a bathroom and Paris’ first cup of coffee emporter (to go).Our girls loved the play park here with it’s large sand boxes and spinning objects that kids just don’t get to play on in the United States.
Luxembourg Gardens is located is the 6 ème Arrondisement.
Jardin Des Plantes(Garden of Plants)
Like the Natural History Museum of Botany.They’ve recreated some of the world’s most diverse environments, each with its own indigenous plant life.And if your kid is a nerd, well, a little Science never hurt anyone.
The Jardin Des Plantes is located in the 5ème Arrondissement of Paris
The Doll Museum
The Paris Doll Museum is a tiny, weird, out of the way type of diversion. But enjoyable nonetheless. It houses some of the strangest antique dolls we've ever seen, as well as a number of new, Agent Provocateur inspired type Barbies.
Impasse Berthaud (near 22 rue Beaubourg), 75003 Paris
On the roof of this shopping center is an artistic eating area and outdoor art exhibit. When we were there, the theme was Alice in Wonderland with a big checkerboard boardwalk and funhouse mirrors.A nice little diversion from an otherwise crowded neighborhood.
South of rue Montorgueil in the 1er Arrondissement
Run Screaming From:
Open any book on Paris and flip to the "Must See" section. Then, immediately cross all of those destinations off of your itinerary. In July and August, showing up even a 1/2 hour after opening can mean another hour waiting on line. And from what we saw, buying tickets on the Internet didn't improve this situation in the slightest.
The Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame (in our opinion) are just as beautiful from the outside. If you MUST see the inside of Notre Dame, go before it opens, then spend the better part of the morning at Luxembourg Gardens (and check out rue Vavin while you're over there) to make up for the pre-petit-dejeuner suffering. The top of the Eiffel Tower was just too much trouble for the view. Go see Sacre Coeur. Same view, good food, no lines.
As for Versailles, Le Grand Palais, Musee D'Orsay, and The Louvre...Skip Versailles. It's really too, too crowded to enjoy. Even at opening. Same goes for Le Grand Palais, which houses the longest line on the planet as part of its permanent collection. D'Orsay is beautiful, but if you're only in town for a few days, you really should see the Louvre.
So if you do decide to go to the Louvre, go before opening. Once inside, catch a quick photo of the Nike of Samothrace on your way La Joconde, then speed directly over to the Venus de Milo. After that, go enjoy the rest of the museum. There's a lot more to discover away from the crowds. Like this guy, who was still trying to get a picture of the Tomb of Phillippe Pot.
Today we said goodbye to our little home away from home in Paris (as well as our 14,353,207 friends from Galleries Lafayette), and took the TGV (Train à Grande Vitesse) to Switzerland. The TGV (if you don't know) is one of those bullet trains that gives passengers the rare opportunity to become Yuri Gargarin for a day and have their eyeballs sucked into the back of their hippocampus. By the time we pulled out of Gare de Lyon, I was able to watch my brain compile a stupid expression before transmitting it to my face when spoken to in French.
And to no one's surprise, there were so many passengers jammed into the cramped rows, it was more like a tour of The Great Wall of Patchouli-Scented Backpacks. Things looked grim...real grim until we reached our seats. But I'll let Max tell you how much room we had. "Freakin' huge!"
That's right, Max, freakin' huge. 8 seats, 4 on each side. And after the first stop, the other family of four got off, leaving us our own private cabin for Roxy to run around in.
There are a lot of things to be scared of in this world. Take Maxim, my friend Julien's son. And I don't mean you should be scared of him. He's 4. Although, if I understood his French correctly, he is a Ninja, so, comme tu veux. No. Saturday, we went to a local carnival in Montargis, the sort that offers rides that can be unfolded off the back of a truck and dumped in the middle of Mott Street or on a farm. But in this particular case, what scared Maxim was a roller-coaster for kids that proved a bit too much for his stomach. I don't really have any jokes just yet. I just thought he looked cute in his mother's arms.
So, what scares me? Parisian ATM's. And not just because they require a special bank card that has a chip embedded in it, leaving you walking aimlessly around wishing America didn't get left out of the technology boom when they started passing out the Jason Bourne of Debit Cards. No, what scares me is this particular ATM on Boulevard Hausmann. That's it on the right, just past the scaffolding. There were two women using it at the time I took the photo. So why would that trouble me? Well, just over the shoulder of that guy on the left is a blue construction helmet being worn by a man holding a rope. Where does that rope go? It goes up. Up to a big bundle of pipes he's delivering to this man... Sorry, I should have said "what remained of a big bundle of pipes," because if you go back and look at the preceding photo, you'll see where the rest of it landed.
Go and get a ruler. Got it? Good, now measure that picture of La Tour Eiffel. You'll need a height and a width.
Got it? Good. Now imagine that tiny little box is an elevator. Imagine it's filled with as many people as the French Lack of Personal Space allows (which is pretty much Capacity + 11). Imagine it's hot. And humid. And there isn't any air conditioning. And you've waited for an hour on two lines with a very unhappy baby in order to get into this death trap shoebox of suffering that is going to take you alllllll the way up to the top of the tower.
