We’re off to Malta in the morning! We’re meeting my parents at Charles de Gaulle and flying to a fabulous-looking resort. I expect four people will be trying to read the Malta guidebooks on the plane.

I hope to answer the following questions before I return:

Will it actually rain the whole time we’re in Malta?

What is there to do there really?

Will we get in a car accident in the country with the highest road accident rate in Europe?

Will Allen throw up on the plane? (He threw up Saturday night - we think he has the flu. Hopefully not.)

Will Mom and I do anything but stitch?

Will we return to France totally broke?

Will I be allowed back into France with my original entry visa?

Stay tuned to find out!

The soldes, or twice-yearly sales, are ending Saturday, February 16. I can’t say I’ll be sad to see them go, as all they’ve brought me is a sense of longing for material things (generally) and pants in my size (specifically). I visited two Camaieu boutiques, Promod, Zara, two Sud Express boutiques, and a few other stores that looked promising.

The major problem is that while the soldes promise discounts as high as 75% from the original prices, my need to pay the electricity bill with my first euros of 2008 meant I had to wait until much of the good stuff had been picked over. Or at least all of the size 46 pants. Several days of hitting different stores resulted in only one purchase: a black sweater that at 50% off was still 30 euros. Zara taunted me with a perfect black dress that fit - barely. And I have more self-control and pride than to buy things that don’t fit anymore. (Stacy and Clinton would be proud too.) So, I’ve got a sweater. And while the dream of size 46 pants at 15 euros or less still makes me smile, it’s more likely I’ll be back to Camaieu to pick a few pairs out at full price. Because let’s face it - paying full price for pants is far better than wearing one pair of jeans from October to February. I should know.

I am desparate to share the genius ideas Allen and I had while Christmas shopping this weekend and the brilliant places we found gifts, but I’m afraid that would ruin all the fun for those receiving the gifts. Suffice it to say that we are brilliant geniuses (did I mention that?), and that if you don’t like your gifts, please return them to us so that we can continue to enjoy our genius ourselves.

This weekend also included a blast-from-the-past reunion of sorts, with a visit from Aysha, my freshman roommate in college. From staying in touch with my good friend Catherine, I reunited with Ann here. Ann’s getting her MBA right outside of Paris, and we used to swing dance together. Ann has kept in touch with Aysha and also with Eugenia, another friend from my swing-dancing sophomore year. It turns out that Eugenia is also studying in Paris, and the four of us plus Allen had lunch together on Saturday at a very good Thai restaurant in the 3rd arrondissement. It was nice to see them again, and I guess it just goes to show that you never know who you’ll reconnect with in your lifetime.

After that, we went to a secret location in Paris where Dick Cheney is hidden. Just kidding, it’s where we did some shopping. We got closer to the Eiffel Tower than I’ve been since arriving, and I was reminded of what an impressive site it really is. Allen and I had a laugh because we’d forgotten the camera at lunch time, and now we wished we’d had it even more.

On Sunday (Nov 25), we came up with an even more brilliant idea of where to shop for gifts, particularly because it was open on Sundays! We then went and found something for everyone remaining on our list! It was very satisfying, as I’m sure you can glean from my tone. (Glean? I am hammering it into you!)

When we got home, Allen turned on the football game (the Redskins were a disaster), and I peeled the “Made in China” stickers off all our purchases. A successful weekend, indeed.

It’s well beyond us now, but Allen and I (and the rest of Paris and even France) enjoyed another transportation strike for nine days in November. Some highlights included riot police on my walk to work, several loud demonstrations (involving flares) on Boulevard du Montparnasse, and high schoolers marching in protest of whatever was causing them angst at that moment in their teenage lives. Fortunately for Allen, he was able to work from home four or five days, which was a nice bonus for both of us.

After weeks of waiting, I was slated to begin my new job on Monday, October 29. The family had hired me for the five weeks between the end of October and the end of November, and I’d taken the job and put off finding anything else for the past three weeks. Now it was time to work! I plotted my route the night before to figure out how early I’d need to leave if I walked, and I slipped my cross stitch into my bag in hopes that the baby would have a nap during my watch. I’d be working mornings four days a week. I was excited about the schedule because it would allow me to wake early (having a purpose to my day), work early, and then enjoy the afternoon. (Of course two days a week, I’d go to my English lessons afterwards, but I’d have Wednesday completely off!) The little girl (a year and a half old) had seemed bubbly and personable when I met the family. The parents too had seemed very nice, and the mother had seemed very low-key, which is a quality I enjoy in mothers I babysit for.

I was allowed a later start than usual this particular Monday because the family had just returned from a trip and were all jet-lagged. It was the weekend after daylight savings time in France, and I was concerned that the mother wouldn’t realize it (and would think I was an hour late). But how much of a worrywort can you be? I arrived right on time, ready to start. (At some point during the day, we did find out that she didn’t realize the time had changed, and I had to specify that I had indeed been on time.)

It was immediately obvious that the little girl was going to cling to her mom, and her mom explained that between the jet lag and the recent trip where the baby’d been left with nannies all day, the baby was really feeling separation anxiety. The mom said she’d be hanging around to show me the ropes.

It’s not worth divulging all the details of the day, but suffice it to say that I spent a long, awkward day with the baby and her mom. The baby was fussy, jet-lagged, and hyper-aware of where her mother was at all times. And that was the easy part. I have come to some sort of zen with babies - they are going to cry, they are not going to like being in your company all of the time (especially when you’re new with them), and if you pay attention, you can figure out how to make them happy most of the time. And that’s fine. The mother on the other hand seemed stressed that the baby was fussy, stressed that I was there (I sensed she didn’t really want to leave me alone with her child), and stressed that I wasn’t taking more charge. Meanwhile, with the mom there all day, the baby didn’t know who was in charge, and I don’t blame her because it was difficult for me to figure out too!

The most awkward part came at the end of the day. I was supposed to be working until 2, so I thought the child needed to be at the daycare by then. It was her first day of daycare (just a little detail to add to the upheaval). The mom went to take a nap at 12:45 once the baby was down for a nap. She said to me, “I shouldn’t sleep more than an hour.” But when an hour had gone by, she was still sleeping, the baby was still sleeping, and I wasn’t really sure what to do. I waited, a little, to see if somebody would wake. Then at 2 pm, I woke the mom, apologizing for waking her, but explaining that it was 2 o’clock, and the baby was still sleeping. The mom springs into frantic action, saying we’ll be late for the daycare, and how is the little girl going to have time to eat, and what time did I go to sleep. It becomes clear from her indirect statements that her earlier (also indirect) statement about how long she should sleep meant she had wanted me to wake her after an hour. We throw the little girl into the stroller, bring some food with us, and race to the daycare in a frenzy. (Actually, for the record, neither the child nor I were frenzied.) The mom didn’t know what bus stop we were supposed to take, so we carried the stroller down the subway stairs. Once there, she got lost at the other end, and we finally arrived at the daycare at 2:40. It turns out we were supposed to be there at 2:30 (which I thought was curious, since she’d told me I’d be working until 2), and she was glad we weren’t that late. Inside, we found out that the woman who was supposed to orient us to the daycare would be there at 3. We sat inside with the little girl for a few minutes, and around 2:45-2:50, the mom offered to pay me and let me go home. She calculated, “10 am to 2:30 pm, that’s 4 and a half hours, so 45 euros.” I wondered if she was leaving off the last 20 minutes I had been there (because she knew full well it wasn’t 2:30 because we’d been late to the daycare!) to punish me for not waking her. I have been fortunate in the past to work for people who round in my favor, not theirs, but I kept my mouth shut. She said she needed to make a large cash purchase that day and could she only give me 40 euros for now. I said that was fine; what else would I say? (I was again slightly annoyed though; we had gone to the ATM for her to get out cash earlier that day!)

I left at the end of the day thinking that it was very likely that it would go better once the mother started leaving me alone with the child. That, and it’s only five weeks. I like to tell myself that I can do anything if it’s for a set time period. I can make it through the school year because I know when it ends. I can force myself to work through stressful situations (graduate school papers, for example) because I know what my deadlines are. So, it would only be five weeks, and the first week would only be Monday and Tuesday, and I’d already made it through Monday!

Transportation workers began an “unlimited” strike in Paris yesterday (Thursday, Oct. 18). I’m not really sure what their demands are because, as most of you know, I live in my own bubble and ignore the news. What I do know: they are not happy. And they are on strike.

Prior to the strike, there was a lot of rumbling around Paris about how long it would last, with reminiscence of the strike of 1995, which lasted three weeks in December. People rode the bikes, walked, got to work however they could, with employers telling them to just come when they could. Popular support for the strike seemed to be low, particularly because it would inconvenience just about every last Parisien.

So, what happened? Well, yesterday (Thursday), Allen worked from home. Only the metro line 14 was running normally because it is a fully automated line. By late last night, two of the lines had 1 in 3 trains and 1 in 6 trains running respectively. Buses and RER service were at a halt.

I walked to my English lesson yesterday, as I always do, so the strike did not disrupt my day. I didn’t see a single bus while I was out, though I did see some taxis. I’m not sure if the taxis were involved or not. I was interested to see the sheer number of people on bicycles. I’m certain that Velib, a bike sharing program recently instituted in Paris, had their biggest day yet! (Velib has bicycles stationed all over the city, and users go up to an automated rental meter (like the Pay-to-Park meters in Arlington and DC) and check out a bike. They pay based on the length they have the bike out, and you can return it anywhere else in the city that has the Velib stations.) Every Velib station I passed either had no bikes or had a few lucky people checking out the last bikes available. I was also interested to see many people rollerblading or riding scooters. (Yes, grown men and women scooting around!)

After English lessons, with the parents only being a few minutes late because of the strike (good for them - one of them actually found a bus that was running), I walked back home amidst the bikes, inconvenienced tourists, scooters, and rollerbladers. I noticed a few stores that had preemptively closed for the day because of the strike.

Today (Friday), Allen had to go to work because his team had an audit planned for the day. When he was plotting his course last night, only a few metro lines were running (and not his usual RER train). It looked like he would have to take the line 14 as far as he could go and then walk over 3 miles. (And of course the same in reverse after work.) Fortunately, when he rose early this morning the line 8 was running (though it only had 1 in 3 or 4 trains coming), and despite that it was sure to be crowded and delayed, this metro goes to within half a mile of his office. He has yet to return home and update me on the horrors. (I hate a crowded metro ever since I almost passed out on one once.) This is Lauren, from Armchair News, signing off on the Paris strike!