Mother's Day

Today is Mother's Day in France even if it's two weeks late for Americans.

Mother's Day is important to me even if I know that it's a big marketing scam, pushing us all to buy flowers and jewelery and perfume. But being a mother is a unique experience that deserves celebration. I imagine that most of those who criticize this holiday have never had a poem recited to them by a six-year-old or received a macaroni necklace.

As a mother of three teenagers, this year is different. There will be no poems and there might not have been anything at all had I not made sure they'd remember. They are all caught up in their own lives, now, and I admit feeling left aside.

My sixteen-year-old is deeply in love, drawing up memories for me of what it was like to be that in love, to get the butterflies-in-the-belly-sensation when that person looks into your eyes. I hope she enjoys it. We all know it only happens for short periods of time.

Her story has brought back a huge rush of memories of my first love and loves, and made me a bit melancholic. When one day, they had gotten in a fight and he'd broken up, I cried with her. It just brought back so many feelings of heart break that I couldn't hold back the tears. But then, the following day, when he texted her to make up, I shared her joy, and I still remember the flush in her cheeks.

Last weekend, one of my twins, Elisia, competed in the national finals on her gymnastics team. Watching her in front of huge crowds and hoards of judges made me live through it with her. I recalled competing as a cheerleader (don't laugh, cheerleaders do compete) and how terrified I was that I might mess up the routine for the whole squad. We won the trophey that year, and hugged and cried together. Elisia won the bronze medal last weekend. She has much more to be proud of than I do, of course. Her team is the third best in the country. But I know what it was like to work hard at something, to practice over and over again, and to feel what it was like to be on a team, working together at something and then succeeding together.


I guess that's what makes being a mom so special. You get to relive the best and the worst of your life by sharing the experiences of your children as they face the same types of experiences.

But being a mom is also feeling needed, and that sentiment is slowly disappearing. My other twin daughter, Charleen, just returned from Germany where she stayed with her penpal's family for a week. She was quite thrilled with her stay there, and particularly pleased by the girl's mother who was funny and nice and a great cook. Charleen brought back the most adorable cupcakes to prove this. They were part of an enormous pack lunch that she hadn't even been able to finish on the bus ride home.

Since her return, I've made cupcakes twice and yesterday, I made raspberry pancakes for breakfast, then orange cinammon muffins, peanut butter and chocolat cookies, rissotto,... Okay, okay, I was just a little jealous!

I remind myself that you only get one mom. I'm theirs and they love me, even if I buy myself too many clothes, make all kinds of silly mistakes when I speak French, and don't always take the time to make incredible cakes and meals. I know they love me and that they've probably bought me something special like a new blouse or necklace from my favorite boutique, but I really would have prefered a macaroni necklace and a badly recited poem. The one thing you can't do is bring back the years. You have to live each day for what it is. It's eleven o'clock and Elisia just woke up. The first thing she did was feel her way downstairs to my computer, all groggy and groany like a teenager should be in the "morning" on a Sunday. But she managed to force her exhausted self down here to wish me a happy mother's day. I'm still her mom, will always be, and I love being a mother every day because every day is made more special because of their place in my life.

So today, I'm going to enjoy every minute with them.

Why I Love London

As a Franco- American, I'd never thought I'd actually want to go to England. I don't know why, but I think it has a lot to do with one awful experience with a British boss. In any case, I admit being wrong about England and the British.

New York City may have everything, except one thing...Camden Market. For a shopaholic with a love for the unique, this place is Paradise. You go from an outdoor market through streets, under tunnels, then you snake through stone-walled tunnels, past brass statues of horses, from one boutique to the next, each of them selling anything from vintage clothing to vinyl records to luggage made with what appears to be old clippings from Cosmo. As you go, odors of international cuisine shift from one continent to the next and the music also changes as you round each corner. Just when you think you must have gotten caught in a maze and may never make your way out again, you see daylight and you find yourself back in the outside world, but not quite the world as you know it. Techno music lures you into a strange palace with dancers in cages high up on the walls and clothing that resembles what the Jetson's wore. If you dare take the stairs down all the way, you find yourself encircled with sex toys and assorted x-rated gadgets that are displayed as if they were works of art in a gallery from a future century.

Back out on the streets, the strangest combination of populations mingle. You try to sneak photographs of the most eccentric among them, like the other tourists from around the world who have come here to witness what London is most famous for. Punks hand out invitations for tatoo parlours and tourists exibit themselves with sunglasses bearing the Union Jack.

The British also have beer. No, we're not talking Budweisers out of cans here, we're talking dark, bitter beers and sweeter blondes that take you on their own journey pint after delectable pint. There's no other ambiance like that of a pub on a weeknight where people of all ages, shapes and sizes gather to sip pints and taste bar menus of stews and fish and chips. In that short week away, I learned that a beer is more than a beer and that there is nothing quite as refreshing and luxurious as a good pint from a tap, served by a barman with that accent I've always found incredibly sexy.

We cannot forget the shops. If Candem Market displays some of the most unique vintage items I've ever come accross, the shops on high streets are also delicious. Filled with the most outrageous handbags, high heels, dresses and accessories, you feel like your leafing your way through pages of Vogue only everything is affordable and touchable. Of course, you couldn't get away with wearing much of it in other countries, but you cannot resist trying it all on anyway and you end up giving in to just a touch of English insanity in a color that comes as close to possible as discreet.

All of the shopping, milling and pinting gives you an appetite, and there's nothing like a full English breakfast to keep you going until nightfall. Yes, anyone really can handle beans in the morning with eggs and sausage and cheese and... And you can wash it all down with as many coffees as you like since those coffees are hardly going to wake you up no matter how many you guzzle.

The other thing that both New York and Paris don't have is the Underground. Okay, there are cameras everywhere and you do sometimes feel like you're in an Orwell chapter, but maybe they work because you also feel quite safe. What you have to admire, though, about the British, is how orderly and polite they are. The trains are all spotless, everything is well indicated and color coded so it's nearly impossible to get lost or get on the wrong train. But what's even more admirable is the way the people are all smiles and "Excuse me," "Sorry," and "Cheers" all day long, even when the cars are bursting and you have to crank your neck inside in order to not have the door close around your skull.

You see, we actually did the Underground and the Metro in the same day. We crammed our way onto a crowded London tube all the way to the train station across town and pardoned our way out of it and into the Eurostar. After a calm trip to Paris, we had just over an hour to take the metro from one Paris train station to the other. As we arrived at the gates leading to the metro, a woman accosted us. "Don't go in there!" she screamed at us. "It's packed full and there's no way to get on a train!"

Having no other choice, we headed down the tunnel and into Hell. The stench of urine and sweat surrounded us along with the screach of brakes and the intolerant squeal of alarm signals as the doors of the train closed, emprisoning herds of people squashed together inside the graffittied train.

The next train arrived a few minutes later and we squashed and pushed our way inside, battling with other passengers I would not have appreciated crossing after dark. Cries of revolt and snears of disgust were accorded us, but we made it on and were therefore trapped inside the moving train with all these horrid looking people glaring at us. We kept our eyes focused on the map of the line, counting down each station as we passed it and praying that we'd get out of there alive and on time to catch our train back to Poitiers, a place I suddenly appreciated much more at that moment.

I've come to the conlcusion that the French (and yes, even the Americans) have a lot to learn from the British, who may do things their own way, but who do do some things a hell of a lot better than other populations.