"Home" in Paris

When I read that kids could learn a new language in four months, I was skeptical. Four months? Barely enough time to unpack boxes and install cable, I thought, let alone communicate in a foreign tongue.

As it turns out, I was wrong.

For Cole and Adele it started slowly -- a tentative "bonjour" to the elderly woman downstairs, a reluctant "a demain" to their teachers at the end of the day. After about two weeks, more words emerged. "Attends, attends!" (Wait, wait!), Cole would say while playing or "arrete!" Adele would yell during a vigorous round of wrestling. Within weeks, they could each count to 20 and even name various body parts en francais.

Soon they were coming home with new questions each day. "Mommy, what does ma copine mean?" Adele asked. How about "le pistolet" or hesitantly, "ka-ka?" Cole asked with a sly smile.

Now, with nearly 12 weeks of school under their belts, they are amazingly integrated in their new world. They've both made friends and been invited to birthday parties. They come home with little stickers and drawings friends have made just for them. They recognize friends' names only by the French pronunciation and often look puzzled when I say them. "Who did you play with today?" I ask. "Ca-meee," (Camille) Adele replies, or "Jo-vaneee," (Giovanni) Cole says, as if there is no other way.

While they know, of course, that they are American, they seem to be becoming a bit more French everyday. I can't help but wonder how long their "American memories" will last -- when their recollection of snow days, our little branch library and their pals next door will be replaced by the imagery of this very moment, that world that children so fully inhabit.

I wonder, too, when they will begin correcting my French and snickering at Mommy's funny accent. That day, I fear, is coming sooner rather than later. Hard as I try, my French will never be what theirs is going to be -- an effortless flow of words that comes easily and without forethought.

Much like their personalities, Cole and Adele have each adapted a distinct style for learning French: Adele through verbalizing, Cole through listening. Adele has long had a habit of singing to herself, providing a musical accompaniment to her games of babies, dress-up and tea party. Now, that singing has a distinctly Gallic melody and includes a mix of French and English words. It's like when she first learned to talk; the way she would babble incoherently before clearly articulating the words.

Cole, however, is learning by observing, be it his favorite French cartoons or snatches of overheard conversation. After listening in as Greg and I spoke in French (something we have always done for non kid-friendly topics), Cole proudly jumped in, "But I don't want to do that," he said, flashing a knowing little grin.

It's all taken me back to my own experience of high school French, reading incomprehensible words on the blackboard and scribbling in my notebook. Je vais, tu vas, il va...My kids' experience is nothing like this. They are learning-by-doing, by full immersion. We chose this method with speed in mind, believing that it would both quicken their learning and shorten our potentially difficult adjustment. So far, it appears to be working.

But now that we've settled on this new path, I can't help but wonder where it all leads. Will my Boston-born babies end up feeling French? Will they develop faint accents when they speak in their native tongue? As Cole abandons Spiderman in favor of Tintin and Osterix, I sometimes think about what's lost as well as gained.

We believe, of course, that this experience is a gift to them. Depending on how long we stay, they will likely be bilingual. This most storied of cities will form the backdrop to their memories -- its carousels, manicured gardens, and pierre de taille facades. They will never know that awe of first seeing Europe through adult eyes, of realizing that the world is vast after years of rarefied American youth. To them, this city will always be a place they once (and perhaps still) call home. These are things I celebrate even as I mourn them the tiniest bit as each day we become more of what we set out to be: an American family living out our dream in Paris.

To Market, to Market I Go (and Go and Go and...)

Ah, food shopping in Paris. With enticing specialty shops lining most commercial streets, I find myself spending my days in a permanent state of gastronomic desire. The smells from the boucheries, boulangeries and patisseries fill the sidewalks and beckon passers-by to sample the delicacies within. Lucky me, I often do.

And then there are the open air markets that Paris is famous for. A few blocks from our apartment is one of the city's best beloved marches, Le Marche Saxe Breteuil. In the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, dozens of vendors crowd the tree-lined boulevard every Thursday and Saturday to sell their artisanal, mouth-watering goods. Fresh-from-the-farm cheeses, succulent sausage and piles of fish and seafood compete for space with jewel-toned fruits, veggies and olives basking in vats of fragrant oil. The air is rich with the scent of fresh bread, garlicky roast chicken, leafy herbs and the perfume of just-cut flowers. Yum.


A trip to the outdoor marche, however, is not for the faint of heart. Navigating the aisles crowded with well-dressed ladies and their rolling caddies, straw baskets and delighted dogs (who lap up the obliging scraps) can be a challenge. The French don't share our appreciation for personal space so the marche at peak hours can be a cozy experience. Determination and a dose of attitude are required to secure a position and emerge with your desired goods. Success comes to those who push (and cut in line); frustration (and hunger) to those who wait.

Working up my courage, I make the weekly journey to our local marche, practicing what I'll order as I stroll the two scenic blocks. "Deux escalopes de veau, monsieur. Des olives vertes. Un poulet roti avec des pommes, aussi." If I'm feeling especially brave, I may question the freshness of the meat or even press a round of soft cheese with my thumb to be sure that it feels just right.

Insisting on the best is definitely a French trait and one that I'm determined to master. In fact, I've learned that being demanding and petulant is actually respected here -- almost required to get what you want. Self-deprecation and timid pleas for assistance get you nowhere; a haughty toss of the head and an impatient air earns an immediate response.

I, however, am not French. So despite my admiration for this way of life, frequent shopping trips for the freshest specialty ingredients and thoughtful menu planning have required some adjustments. Accustomed as I am to driving to the store and loading the minivan with a haul to last the week, daily shopping trips to purchase only what I can carry has been well, different.

Of course, it's not realistic to do all our shopping at the marche. For the daily needs, I head to the neighborhood market and brace for yet another adventure in cultural confusion. These are Paris' far less glamorous establishments: Franprix, Dia, Leader Price and the like -- the everyday supermarkets that populate the city streets. They are also the places I feel my American-ness more than ever and long for the cool, orderly aisles of Whole Foods and the upbeat conviviality (not to mention the peanut butter and kid-sized shopping carts) of Trader Joe's.

Eggs and milk are not kept in the refrigerated section (Don't ask). Cereal boxes are so small that we seem to plow through one a day. Shelves are stocked at all hours so aisles are routinely blocked by piles of boxes that preclude access to daily necessities. Employees are amazingly unhelpful. ("Excusez-moi madame, ou se trouve les oeufs?" I ask. "La bas," ("Over there..") the clerk responds with a limp flick of her wrist.) The eggs, naturally, are not "over there," so I track down another clerk and pose the same question, only to be told that the eggs are not yet unpacked. "Plus tard, peut-etre?" he says with a Gallic shrug.

To proceed smoothly through the check-out, you must first weigh your produce on a mini-scale that spits out a sticker to attach to the produce bag. Woe be the shopper who forgets to weigh an item or fails to correctly label their selected produce. There will be no "price check on aisle four," just a frustrated and embarrassed American grumbling about the weight of her tomatoes.

But none of this compares to the near Olympian feat of bagging your own groceries like you're playing a game of Beat the Clock under the withering gaze of a line of impatient Parisians. Not yet broken of my American habits, I remain determined to load up on as much stuff as possible in the vain hope that I won't have to return the following day. This means that I invariably buy more than I can carry, leaving me to trek home like a pack mule weighed down with plastic bags and trailing a bulging red trolley.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. Vive la difference, as they say. So ciao for now, gotta go. Thursday in la septieme is marche day!