That's Why Parents Eat Their Young

The title of this blog is a direct quote from the induplicable Mary Jo Schab. I think she meant to say, "That is why animals eat their young," but who knows, it could have been a Froidian slip. After four days straight with her kids, Lord knows, no one would have blamed her.

I wonder if my sister in law Leah had the same experience I did. When someone you know comes to visit you in a place where you moved, it makes you feel even more at home because you realize how much you know.
Ruta arrived on Thursday, and I ran from work to see her. It was so good to have her in my arms again. We talked and talked when she arrived. It is so good to have someone who knows you well around. I can talk about the past without saying things like, "Ok, so this one time about five years ago..." I can just talk, and know that she has been there for most of what I am referring to. It is good to be understood.
I got to the apartment that we rent when she comes, and good wife that she is, dinner was waiting. Since the train strike was still on, I had to take a bus to another bus, ride that one standing up for an hour, and then walk for forty minutes before climbing three flights of stairs before I could lay my hands on her, so dinner was a welcome sight.
She told me all about her trip to Brazil. Apparently some people there didnt take too kindly to my earlier comments about Ranch, but my feeling is, if they liked ranch so much, they should have brought some with them when they fled the country. You know who you are.
Regardless, my wife knows how to travel. I asked if she had read Life of Pi, like I had recommened, and she said, "Oh, yes. I started it while sitting under an umbrella on a beach in Rio." Poor girl. Anyway, she had some great things to say about Leah and Brazil, and I think I will live there next. It sounds like a really great country. Come for the capoeria, stay for the pie!
The next day, my parents and sister and "uncle" and "cousin" arrived (you know those people who arent blood, but you grew up with them, so they're 'cousins'). What can I say, Italians dont do things in twos. In total, I became tour guide for seven of us. To quote my cousin Donna, "This is like hearding cats!" It was a lot of fun, but I had forgotten how loud Americans are. Many was the time I had to give the look to a relative who had piped up too much. Geez, people, its a small country. They can hear you in Nice.
Anyway, we took a long walk all around Paris for two days: Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, Champs Elyesees, La Bastille, Hotel de Ville, the Louvre (though we didnt go in), Notre Dame, the Latin Quarter, and a boat ride down the Seine. My favorite parts were when we would stop and eat though.
When first we started out, it wasnt long before someone chimed in with, "Lets stop for a glass of wine" which in Schabeez means, "Who would like to stop for a glass of wine, and finish the bottle, and then get a beer to wash it down?"
We stopped at a place called Dome (someone actually asked me what that meant in French) and had a couple. It was nice, warm and cozy. Donna and I ordered the afrorementioned beers. I asked for the medium, which at Dome translates to: "Please help me start a drinking problem." These were enormous, giant beers. Moments later, Donna was done and we headed out the door.
Being that my wife arrived on Thanksgiving, and my family the next day, no one really had a chance for a proper sit-down Thanksiving Dinner. Make no mistake, there are plenty turkey dinners available in Paris, but we had no desire for turkey.
Saturday night, after the boat tour, we conveined at a little place in the Bastille area. We eschewed the traditional turkey and cranberry sauce for grilled octopus, fried potatoes, braised artichokes, giant shimp in garlic and lemon, baked goat cheese and fresh bread by the loaf full. It was a little, out of the way tapas place, and the food was incredible. My Uncle John ordered a couple of nice bottles of Spanish reds to wash it all down, and it was deelish. We talked forever, and it was so good to be back with my family again.
Earlier that day, we had stopped for lunch at a little place on Avenue Kleber, which connects the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower. I had the roquet salad with buffalo mozzerella. It was magical, but what was really of note was the wine.
My Uncle John is a wine guy, as is his daughter, so I love them a little extra.
My uncle ordered a bottle of Bordeaux that was really, really great. Tannic and very fruity, and dry as the day is long. This bottle was from a region around Bordeaux called Saint Emilion, which is one of the prettiest and most well preserved French communes available. It is also noted for its spectacular wines. This one was no exception. I realize that a white would have paired much better with a salad, but hey, who are you to critcize? When next you find yourself in the market for a great bottle, consider any AOC Bordeaux from Saint Emilion, especially 2004. Its a year I like.
Uncle John and Donna (Donner to those in the know, a nickname I think she earned when my sister and her took a weekend in London. I dont want to know how it came up) left on Sunday morning, so the Schabimkuses were on our own. The general feeling was exhaustion, so we took a walk down Rue de Rivoli, a main drag here, and went to the movies.
Sunday we got out, and I took my dad to the Invalides. It is a military hospital that Napoleon built for the guys who got all shot up for him. Nice guy. He would eventually need the hospital himself, and when his body was returned from exile in Corsica, he was buried there. His tomb is HUGE. It is one coffin within another, to protect one of France's greatest military leaders, or... um, actually, France's only great military leader. They're not into the whole world domination thing like we are. Go figure. Regardless, there are seven coffins, one within the next, and his sons are buried in the corners of the building around him.
It is a place that is supposed to be filled with solemnity and grace, but a field trip of French fourth graders spoiled that. It was in this place of historic greatness that my father spoke his only perfect French, by the by. He said, "I would like to get a picture of that statue, but I will wait until les petites bastards leave." Ahh, high culture.
While my father and I were admiring a Dubleya Dubleya Two exhibition at the same museum, my wife and mother and sister were taking Paris by storm. We all met up at Notre Dame, and the ladies went over everything that they bought, which was an extensive list. I had the pleasure of carrying Ruta's capitalistic conquests around with me for the rest of the day. I'm good like that.
It was shortly there after that we continued shopping. This time for bags and New Year's dresses. My dad and I stood waiting in the lobby of one store. I asked if he didnt want to look around at the bag my mother was thinking of purchasing for herself, to which he replied, "Oh, I've got one just like it. I'll just wait here."
Later, after an hour or so of wandering the tiny rues of the Latin Quarter, we stopped at the Saint Severin for a drink. This is a favorite place of mine for cognac, so that's what I had. It was perfect. We sat at a little table in the window and sipped our drinks, and passed the day away. I realized how much I missed them over and over on this trip, but not more than this time. It was just what I was looking for: simply to talk with my family.
That night we got back to the apartment, and Ruta and I had gone shopping for another Thanksgiving Dinner, so I got lucky. Instead of missing Thanksgiving altogher, I had two dinners in Paris. Not too bad.
We killed a bottle of Bordeaux and a sack of macarons that my mom bought, not to mention the four kinds of cheese on the table.
We sat and lauged, while the open window let in the cool Paris breeze and the sounds of the street. The table was full, the light was soft, the laughter loud, and the wine and company delicious.
Cameras are great, and video is fabulous, but nothing could have captured that night like my mind's eye did. It is how I always want to remember my family, laughing together.
And so it made in doubly difficult that they left on Tuesday, but I had to get back to the hotel that Monday night. My parents and sister said goodbye first, to leave me and Ruta some time. I dont know what made it so hard; as of this writing I have exactly one month before I come home, so it wont be long until I see them again. Still, I put my arms around my sister, and held her tight. She is a wonderful woman. My mom and dad too, the best parents I could ask for.
After they left, I took care of any last minute details that needed attending with the apartment, and said my goodbyes to Ruta.
When she dropped me off at the airport, I knew I would see her in a month. When she left from her first visit, I knew she was coming back, but this time, I felt different. Maybe it was because I was leaving her at the apartment, but I dont know. It was so hard to walk out of that apartment with her still fresh on my lips and buy a ticket to ride away from her, again.
Anyone who knows me or has read this blog knows that I love France. No doubt, but I have to say, I am getting sick of saying goodbye to people.
My friends Sean and Mike will be here in a few days, and it will be nice to see them, but I am hoping that their plane is delayed three weeks or so, so that I dont have to say goodbye again.
Anyway, a wonderful visit all around, and a fresh and well-deserved burst of one of America's best holidays.
I was so glad to have spent it with my family.