Le plateau: que de bonheur, que des A!

Bientôt, la moto
(et pas juste une copie de l'immatriculation du concessionnaire)

English to follow below.

30 May
Here, way down below, is the English version. The title refers to the first part of the motorcycle licensing exam in France, which I (finally) passed on Wednesday.

Je.suis.morte.

J'ai à peine dormi la nuit de mardi à mercredi à cause des nerfs et de l'anticipation du réveil qui allait sonner à 5h55.

Le plateau. Il y a deux épreuves pour avoir le permis de moto. Depuis quelques années, ils ont fait que cela soit plus difficile (pour ne pas dire beaucoup plus difficile) d’obtenir dans l’idée de faire en sort à ce que moins de "petits cons" qui se flingue sur les routes.

Il faut alors faire preuve de la maîtrise de la moto hors circulation et en circulation, qui passe par les noms de "plateau" et de "circulation".

Le plateau est la partie hors circulation. L'épreuve consiste en 5 parties:

"La poussette" ou de pousser la moto sans l'aide du moteur. Cadeau. Si on n’est pas trop nul, on passe directement à la partie des "vérifs", ou les vérifications à faire quand on prend la moto. On tire au sort l’un des trois séquences de vérification possibles et on prend une souffle, espérant ne pas perdre déjà ses esprits.

Les trois prochaines épreuves sont considérées comme les plus redoutables.

D'abord, il y a le parcours à allure lente, qui consiste à manier sa moto en première vitesse à allure réduite, avec et sans passager. Il faut toujours faire un slalom très serré entre des cônes et des piquets, parfois une figure en huit, un demi tour entre des cônes, etc. On n'est pas chronométré (merci, Dieu). C'est la précision et le contrôle qui compte.

Un parcours sans faute égale un A. On a droit à une faute, mais c'est un B. Deux fautes égalent un C. Pour réussir le plateau, il faut un minimum de 3 B's et 1 A. Un C est éliminatoire, ainsi que la chute pour le parcours lent et le parcours rapide. Une faute serait de mettre un pied parterre, de déplacer ou de faire tomber un cône ou un piquet, de se tromper de parcours (ce dernier est peut-être éliminatoire, aussi).

Le parcours à allure normale, dit "la rapide". C’est là où la plupart se plante, et il suffit peu pour le rater et partir en ignominie, tristesse et déception sans bords.

Il y en a quatre possibles, et le tirage au sort et fait le matin, comme le parcours lent et "la poussette". Toutes les quatre demandent que le candidat démarre, accélère et arrive à entre 35 et 40 km/h avant l'entrée au slalom.

Ensuite, il faut slalomer entre 8 cônes à une allure d’à peu près 40 km/h, ou un chouya de plus, quitter le slalom et se diriger au bout de la piste pour négocier un demi-tour en première à l'allure réduit sans dépasser un largeur marqué au sol par des traits blancs qui délimite un largeur d’à peu près une voie de route. Cela sans poser le pied parterre. Puis, on accélère pour rentrer dans le slalom en troisième.

C'est à partir de ce moment que les parcours diffèrent. On peut terminer en rétrogradage et freinage, en freinage d'urgence, ou en réalisant un évitement soit par la droite soit par la gauche. L’évitement termine en troisième avec un freinage d'urgence entre deux cônes, ou en catastrophe.

On est chronométré. Par sol sec, on doit effectuer l'épreuve entre 19 et 22 secondes, et par sol humide entre 20 et 23 secondes. On a droit de dépasser par 0,5 seconde, mais ceci compte comme une faute, et une faute égale un B. On peut effleurer un cône sans que cela ne compte comme une faute, mais si on fait tomber ou sauter un cône, c’est une faute.

Si l’on a eu la chance et tout fut bon, on passe aux "fameuses fiches". On adore les fiches. On s’amuse comme les fous à les apprendre par cœur. Toutes les 20. Je blague.

Elles parlent des sujets tels que la formation du motard, les différentes motos, leurs utilisations et un comparaison de la moto et la voiture, l'état physique du motard (l’effet de la fatigue, de la drogue et de l'alcool), l'entretien de la moto, la vitesse, le freinage, la moto la nuit, l'assurance, les accidents, les manœuvres et les situations dangereuses, etc. C'est la partie théorique.

Certains inspecteurs font le candidat réciter par cœur sans poser des questions. C’est stressant. D'autres font cela plus comme un échange. S'il est clair que le candidat connaît très bien le sujet, on ne le laisse même pas finir tous les points ; le but c'est de savoir qui les sait bien et qui ne les a pas appris. La notion est que si le candidat connaît une fiche bien, il connaît toutes les 20 bien car il ne peut savoir avant laquelle il aura le jour de l’examen.

Le tout fini avec une question concernant les panneaux de la route et leur application à la moto. Cerise sur le gâteau.

Pour le dire, dés qu'on à un C, c'est fini. On ne continue pas. Si on a 3 B’s avant les fiches, il faut un A. Ce n’est pas évident. Il faut être incollable et parfait pour l'obtenir. L'idée est de réussir un A sur les vérifications et à la "poussette" car c'est par loin la plus facile et il assure le droit à l'erreur après.

Pour le dire aussi, il suffit un tout petit moindre chose presque trop insignifiant pour ne pas réussir au parcours lent et au parcours rapide. C'est très fâcheux. J'ai échouée par peu et j'ai vu des autres échouent par peu, et cela fait très, très mal. L'échec au plateau ne veut pas dire que la personne sera un mauvais motard. Non ! Il y a des moniteurs de motos qui ont mis 3 ou 4 fois pour le passer. Il faut gérer ses nerfs tout autant qu'il faut maîtriser l'aspect technique. Pas chose facile pour tous. Il y avait un jeune homme qui passa hier -- son quatrième essai.

Mais, les gens sont vraiment très gentils les uns avec les autres. Il y a un véritable esprit de soutien à la piste du plateau, pour ceux qui passent le plateau et pour ceux qui sont là pour passer le deuxième partie: la circulation.

Hier je revis une fille qui échoua avec moi le 13 mars. Elle fut ma passagère en mars, et je fus la sienne, et elle le fut encore hier pour tous les 5 de nous. Tout le monde s'embrasse, se rassure, échange des expériences et des histoires. On est jeune, on est plus âgé, on est noir, blanc, arabe, professionnel, étudiant, mère, grand-père. C'est vraiment démocratique. J'adore cet aspect de la moto.

Et moi alors.

....

J'eus mal au ventre avant. Ça me réveilla avant le réveil, et ce fut la catastrophe arrivant en St.-Germain-en-Laye juste avant 8 h. Où aller dans les secondes qu'il me fallait avant d'être obligée de rentrer chez moi dans la humiliation totale? Je arrivai tôt au rendez-vous alors je ne pus prendre le risque d’aller jusqu’à l’école de moto pour la trouver fermer. Je fus désespérée. L’hôpital public ? Je ne trouvai pas facilement l’entrée. La station service Total ? Pas certain qu’il y ait une toilette publique. Je retournai dans le panic pour entendre qu’il n’en avait pas. Je ne pus lâcher l’affaire facilement.

"Je suis malade. " La femme au comptoir me regarda un instant et prit pitié pour moi, et je lui dois une dette de gratitude.

Arrivée à la piste, les jambes flageolaient avant le parcours lent et je crus que j'allais être malade à nouveau.

"C'est normal," me dit Patrick, "Ça va aller. Cette fois c'est la bonne; je le sens." Rien à faire mais de croire en moi. Je sus que je fus prête, mais les nerfs! Ils sont terribles à gérer. Je monte pour le lent. Je regarde Patrick. Je regarde les autres, cherchant le regard de l'inspecteur. Je regarde le parcours. Je me dis, "Tu l'as fais sans aucun problème chaque fois hier soir. Il n'y a aucune raison que cela ne se passe pas bien maintenant. Respire et vas y."

Et, ce fut parfait la première fois! Ouf.

J'attends le rapide.

"Patrick, mes jambes ne me soutient plus."

"C'est normale. Tu l'auras."

Les autres commencèrent. Je allai à ma moto -- celle de l'école de moto dont je me sers et à laquelle je me suis habituée -- et je lui caressai son réservoir, "Ok, ma belle, c'est la dernière fois qu'on fait ça ensemble, toi et moi."

Patrick la met face à la piste, "Vas y."

"Je dois respirer." Je me assieds. Je me relève pour mieux m'installer. Je regarde les cônes devant moi et me dis que je réalise ce parcours à chaque fois dans les 20 à 22 secondes, même la veille, quand je dus aller doucement en raison du sol humide et des gravillons. Les quelques points techniques qui m'embêtaient encore deux séances avant ne devaient plus m'occasionner de problèmes. Je l'avais bien vu la veille.

Je me lance. Tout se passe bien. Je ne coince pas en engageant les vitesses. Je m'étais décidée d'aller pour la précision la première fois, et plus de peps la deuxième (s'il la fallait).

Le demi-tour, parfait. Je me parle; je fais le commentaire de mon travail.

Maintenant, le slalom à nouveau, et puis passer l'inspecteur sans couper le moteur avant, rétrograder proprement et freiner sans faute avant la ligne C3 marquée au sol.

Je m'arrête nickel plus qu'un mètre avant la ligne, je me dis, "Oh my God, that was it!" et j’entend derrière moi, "Mais, qu'est-ce qui s'est passé?"

Je me retourne. L’inspecteur est là, les épaules haussées, les mains étendues vers moi. La non compréhension. Je ne comprends plus rien. C’est le choque total. J'ouvre les yeux grands, "Mais..."

"C'est bon!" crie-t-il, un grand sourire. Il était l'inspecteur au moment de mon échec en mars et au code quand je l’eus sans faute en octobre.

J'éclatai de rire, et me retournant dans la selle, je vis tout le monde avec des énormes sourires en train d'applaudir! Je fis un bond dans la selle, poing dans l'air, "YES!!!!" Ce fut l’un des plus grands des tous petits moments dans la vie.

Je descendis de la moto, m'agenouillai et fit un bisou de la main au sol. La paix avec la piste de Rambouillet.

C'est fait.

Merci, Patrick, bientôt le meilleur des amis.

....

Maintenant, il ne reste que la circulation le 10 juin, et tout est déjà en marche pour l’achat et l’immatriculation de ma moto, une 2004 BMW 650 Scarver.

Bien sur que j’ai l’intention de passer la prendre rentrant de l’épreuve de circulation.
....

I.am.dead.

I barely slept Tuesday night from nerves and anticipating the alarm, set for 5:55 AM. My hour of birth.

The "plateau". There are two exams for the motorcycle license in France. A few years ago, they changed the preparation and examination process to make it more difficult (even much more difficult) to get a motorcycle license. The idea was to reduce the number of "petits cons", or little jerks, who kill themselves on the roads.

You have to show that you can handle the bike on a technical course and in traffic. The exams take place on two separate days, with different preparation.

The "plateau" is the technical part, and the exam consists of 5 parts:

"La poussette". This involves pushing the bike (184 kg for the one I used, a Yamaha 500 GS) with the motor cut through a course of gates. Piece of cake. If one isn't completely incompetent, one goes directly onto the verification of the bike, or what you need to check before heading out. I talk about this all the time in French, and I am honestly having a bit of a hard time finding the right words in English. You draw one of three different sequences of verifications -- the motor and owner's manual, the parts of the cycle and gloves, or lights, security and helmet -- and take a deep breath so that you don't suddenly draw a huge blank and completely mess up already. This, after all , is the easy part.

The next three parts are considered the hard ones.

First, there is the slow course, which involves the mastery of the bike in first gear at low speed, with and without a passenger. There is a slalom through gates made of cones and uprights, where the distance between the gates is quite reduced, and either a U-turn between cones, a figure eight, etc. One is not timed (thank you, God). It's the precision and control that count. You can't stall.

A course completed without fault equals an A. One has the right to a single fault, but that equals a B. Two faults, and it's an automatic C and elimination on the spot. To pass the "plateau", you have to have a minimum of 3 B's and one A somewhere. A C eliminates you immediately from further examination, as does a fall or an error in the course for the slow and the rapid. A fault would be to put a foot on the ground, to knock over a cone, or to send one flying, poorly controlled braking, and so on.

The there is the fast course, fondly called "le rapid". This is where most people fail, and it doesn't take much to leave in ignominy, and unlimited misery and disappointment.

There are four courses possible, and the draw takes place in the morning, before the first exam session. All four require the candidate to start the bike, accelerate and enter the slalom in third gear at about 35-40 km/h.

Then, you have to slalom between 8 cones at about 40 km/h, or a little more, exit the slalom and head for a U-turn requiring that you down-shift to first, brake, and turn around a cone without exceeding a certain width -- about a single lane of traffic, or a little narrower -- marked by white lines on the ground. Then, you accelerate, reenter the slalom in third.

It's from this point on that the four courses differ. One ends with down-shifting and braking within a certain distance, another with an emergency braking and the last two involve an avoidance maneuver, from either the right or the left, in third gear, followed by braking between a distance the length of the bike marked by two cones or in catastrophe.

It's a timed course. On a dry course, must complete it between 19 and 22 seconds, and on a wet course, between 20 and 23 seconds. There is an allowance of 0.5 seconds, but this equals a fault, and a fault equals a B. It's alright to brush a cone without it counting as a fault.

If one is prepared and lucky and all has gone well, the last part are the "fameuses fiches", or the series of cards, each covering a theme. We love the "fiches". It's a ton of fun to study and learn them by heart. All 20 of them. I am kidding, of course. It's no fun whatsoever.

The cards cover subjects such as the preparation of the motorcyclist, the different motorcycles, their uses and a comparison of the motorcycle and the car, the physical condition of the motorcyclist (the effect of fatigue, drugs and alcohol), the maintenance of the bike, speed, braking, riding by night, insurance, accidents and what to do in the presence of an accident, anticipating dangerous maneuvers and situations, etc. It's the theoretical part. You draw one of the 20, face down.

Some exam inspectors treat the "fiches" like a discussion, but others make the candidate recite the points covered by the subject of the card, cold. That is very stressful. If it's clear that the candidate knows his or her stuff and masters the subject, the exam inspector sometimes doesn't even bother making them finish. The idea is to know who knows their stuff and who hasn't learned them. If the candidate knows one "fiche" thoroughly, they know them all because you can't know which one you will draw on the day of the exam.

It all ends with a single question of 40 possible on the signs of the road and their application to the motorcycle. The cherry on the cake.

One C, the exam is over. If you have 3 B's before the "fiches", you have to get an A to pass. It's not so simple then. You're going to have to know it cold. The pressure is turned up. The best is to assure your A on the verifications and the "poussette" because that is by far the easiest part. The A there gives you room for error later, and you need it because the tiniest little insignificant seeming thing is enough to trip you up on the slow and the fast courses. It's nerve-wracking. I failed by a hair's breadth, and I have seen others do it, too, and that really hurts. Failure on "le plateau" doesn't mean you'll be a bad motorcyclist. There are teachers in the motorcycle schools who have needed 3 or 4 times to pass. It requires mastering your nerves as much as the technical points of riding a motorcycle. Not an easy thing for everyone. There was a young guy who passed yesterday with me -- his fourth attempt.

But everyone's so nice and supportive of one another, usually. There is a real sense of camaraderie between everyone present -- the teachers, those there to pass the "plateau" and those who are there to pass the second part: "la circulation", or the part in traffic.

Yesterday there was a young woman who failed with me back on March 13. She had passed the "plateau" last week and was there for the traffic part a little later. She was my passenger back in March, and did it again for all 5 of us passing Wednesday. Everyone talks together, reassures each other, exchanges experiences, information, and stories from their previous experiences, and offers encouragement, and sympathy if needed. We are young, we are older, we are black, white, of Arab descent, professional, student, artisan, mother, grandfather. It's really democratic. I love that aspect of the motorcycle.

Riding the bike is pretty terrific, too.

And so, my story.

....

I had such intestinal troubles, as usual! It woke me before the alarm, and it was nearly catastrophic arriving in St.-Germain-en-Laye just before 8 AM. Where to find a public toilet in the few seconds remaining before I would be obligated to go back home, in complete disgrace without even making it to the motorcycle school? I was early for our appointment there, so I couldn't take the chance to go park the car, get there and find it locked. It was desperate. The hospital? I couldn't find the entry, driving around it. Serious. The Total gas station I had passed? Not certain there would be a public toilet, but I went back since it was my best chance only to hear they didn't have one available to the public. I couldn't let it drop that easily.

"I'm sick. " The woman behind the counter looked at me an instant, and then took pity on me. I owe her a debt of gratitude. Audouin says it is the stress hormones released by the brain that do this to your intestines. Great. Just great.

Once we were there at the exam place, my legs turned to noodles just before the slow course, and I thought I was going to be sick again.

"It's normal," says Patrick, "It's going to be fine. This time is the one; I feel it." Nothing to do but believe in myself. I had failed before, but I didn't have to this time. I was even more prepared; I was ready, but the nerves! Nearly impossible to control. I get on the bike. I look at Patrick, next to me. I look at the others and meet eyes with the exam inspector. I look out over the course of cones and gates. I tell myself, "You did it with no problem every time last night. There is no reason that it shouldn't go as well not. Breath and go."

And, it was perfect the first time! Phew.

I join the others and wait for the fast course.

"Patrick, my legs are barely holding me up."

"It's normal. You'll have it."

The others began. I went over to my motorcycle, the one I used throughout my classes, and I touched the gas tank, "OK, my pretty one, this is the last time we're going to do this together, you and I."

Patrick placed it facing the course, "Go ahead."

"I have to breathe." I mount. I stand on the footrests to get settled. I look at the cones laid out before me and I tell myself that I manage this course every time in fewer than 22 seconds, even the night before when I had to go easy because the pavement was wet and covered with gravel. The technical points that caused me problems just two sessions before were resolved. I had seen that the night before.

I engage first gear, accelerate and head for the first cone of the slalom. Everything goes fine. I don't miss the clutch. I had decided to go for precision the first time, more speed the second, if necessary.

I just brush the first cone, and in a heartbeat, I think of my first teacher, the one I left, and how he exhorted us to send that cone flying since the closer we came to it with the rear wheel the better our trajectory through the cones. He'd have appreciated that, I thought. The cones pass. I accelerate gradually. I must be at about 45 km/h. Just before the last one, leaving the slalom, I accelerate toward the U-turn cone. Halfway there, second, then first. Eyes on the cone. There, a tiny rear braking, keep the body upright, eyes on the cone, pull the handlebar toward me, keep the eyes on that cone until I am looking back over my shoulder, then look up and find that first cone back into the slalom. Accelerate, second, third, slalom. Eyes on the cones that mark where I leave the slalom. Steady speed. The inspector. Cut the gas, second, a breath, first, brake. The bike stops on a dime more than a meter before the line, C3. A quick review in my head. Nothing. Nothing went wrong.

"Oh my God, that was it!" I think, just as I hear a voice behind me say, "But, what happened?"

I turn around and see the exam inspector, his shoulders drawn up, hands extended toward me, a look of disbelief on his face. I don't understand anything anymore. Complete shock, "But -- "

"It's good!" he laughs. It was the same exam inspector when I failed in March and when I got a perfect result on my rules of the road test in October.

I burst out laughing, and turning back in the saddle, I see everyone grinning and applauding. I jumped, and fist in the air, shouted "YES!!!" The French love it when I do that. It was one of the biggest of those little moments in life. What's funny is that when he announced my result -- which they usually don't do after the rules of the road ("Code") test -- everyone did the same thing, and I made a "YES!!!", with the fist. Think Sharapova.

I parked the bike near the gate, got off, bent down on my knees and pressed a kiss from my palm to the pavement. I made my peace with the examination course in Rambouillet.

It's done.

Thank you, Patrick, very soon one of my best friends.

....

Now, all that remains is the test in traffic on June 10, and everything is in the works for the purchase (finally... it has been waiting for me since last August at the BMW dealership) and the registration of my motorcycle, a 2004 BMW 650 Scarver.

Of course I will go straight there and pick it up on my way home from the exam. I'll just leave the car in the hospital parking lot nearby before.
....

Attempted theft, and a break-down (not mine, yet)

Sam's bi-color scooter
A third life

The phone rang at almost 1 AM.

"Who could that be?" asked Audouin. It took a second, and then I remembered that Sam was out. It had to be him. He had probably tried my cell, gotten no reply, since the signal goes in and out here, and called the house. He'd hung up before we answered. I went and got my cell phone, and it rang the second I returned to the couch where I'd been typing last night's post and Audouin was vaguely watching the Queen Elisabeth Competition in Brussels. Opera.

It was a text message from Sam, "Staying at Denis' tonight. I'll be home 4 lunch." It had come an hour and a half earlier.

I dialed his number, and a frantic Sam blurted out, "My scooter was stolen!"

"Oh no, Sam! -- " I looked at Audouin, who asked what was wrong. Sam continued before I could say anything.

"But I found it." He was breathless. I asked what had happened.

"The lock, I couldn't open it when I got there, it's rusted closed, so I left my scooter hidden between two cars on a side street, an alley, really, and when I came back out, it wasn't there, but I saw the lock in the middle of the street farther up, so I headed in that direction, and I kept looking on all the streets nearby, and I found it, lying on its side near the church."

"Sam, come home. Don't go to Denis'."

"I am, Mom, but, I can't start it. They jammed the starter."

We hopped in the car and headed over to where he was waiting for us, planning on trying to put it in the back of the BMW wagon or follow him while he pushed it to the hospital.

The phone rang as we were passing Florosny, "Mom, I can't go wait by the clinic. There's a police car. He just stopped another car between the clinic and me, drugs probably. I don't want them to think I stole this scooter, since I am pushing it."

"Sam, great, you can tell the police that someone tried to steal your scooter, and your parents are on the way." He was not into that. He waited by the church, under a street light.

When we arrived, we managed to load it into the back of the station wagon, with the front wheel and tire sticking out. Sam climbed into the back end and held onto it to make sure it didn't go anywhere when we braked. Two shrubs had been torn to the ground at the entry gate to the cemetery across the street. We avoided shattered car glass strewed across the street rounding a corner up the block.

"It wouldn't make any difference, Mom, if you and Audouin followed me. They don't care. If they want to take it, they will, with you there or not."

Yeah, just let them face a couple of angry parents for once in their lives.

....

It's just terrible. I have never encountered more theft and attempted theft before moving here. My cell phone from my hand while talking to Audouin in St. Denis just after our wedding in September, 2002. Sam's cell phone a few months later, from his hand, near his school in Paris. The attempted theft of the BMW from the parking lot of Ikea in Plaisir, 2 or 3 years ago. The attempted theft of the Volvo we had parked in the parking lot of the town hall here in the village a few months ago. Now, Sam's scooter.

I don't like him to leave it locked on the street after dark, preferring to drive him to get a train when he goes into Paris, rather than leave it locked in the parking garage with the bikes, scooters and motorcycles. Immigration, the underclass and race are rampant problems here. The tension, the hostility and the delinquency are enormous. The kids face it daily, with threats and aggression.

The private school kids face gangs outside their school and in the local parks. The gangs are often the little brothers. The big brothers are never far away. They come looking for the kids who were at the public school with them before, hasseling them. Sam has seen kids get surrounded and beaten. Does anyone try to help them?

"No, Mom, you can't. They'll come after you."

The police patrol, questioning everyone, asking for ID papers, searching backpacks. An effort at fairness? Those who have more are assaulted by those who have less and feel gypped by a society that owes them. And the hostility goes both ways now. It simmers. Maybe it's not as bad as the kids describe it. These are young men, young blood running hot.

The police feel powerless. They take someone in, and they are back out on the street again hours later, back at it. Sarkozy got rid of neighborhood policing when he was prime minister. There was talk of bringing it back, but the police are underfunded. There aren't enough officers. There aren't enough vehicules. The neighborhoods need officers on foot, armed to protect themselves and make it clear they aren't sitting ducks, who know everyone's names and who their mothers and fathers are. No wonder some circle the name of Jean-Marie Le Pen and his Front National when they vote in the presidential elections these last two decades and more, but xenophobia is not the solution. Community policing, better integration of public housing residents, serious attempts to educate everyone and job training with the real expectation of a job with a future are.

....

Last night, Sam saw a group of 30 or so young guys, they are of Arab and black African descent in the public housing of Val Fouré, cruising where he was looking for his scooter. They have a term for these roving bands of young men cruising the streets. They are sometimes followed by a police car for some distance. He saw them crossing the plaza outside the church just as he spotted it, and he hid, waiting for them to pass by before going to retrieve it.

....

Today, he learned that some of his friends had seen three guys, around 18 years old and black, take his scooter and throw it to the ground when they couldn't get it to start. They broke off a piece of plastic, jolted the handle bar out of line with the front wheel. They had forced the ignition with something and jammed it.

"Mom, 5 minutes earlier and they wouldn't have gotten it. If I'd seen them, I'd have gone and gotten Isham and some of the big guys from Val Fouré at the party, and we'd have gotten them. We'd have let them have it."

Some of his friends who were at the party are also black and of Arab descent. They are his classmates. Isham is a champion boxer in his age class in France. He's slight of build but knows how to land a punch. They have some big friends, though, able to intimidate three 18-year-olds from the projects. It's a tough world for them. I tell him never to go looking for problems or to put himself, or let his friends put themselves, at risk; no scooter is worth his, or their, well-being.

....

Now, after an accident, resulting in an electric blue piece in front and new rear-view mirrors and a new handlebar, we have to take it apart again.

Never, ever leave it unlocked -- even just with the lock through the rear wheel. Come back home if there is a problem, and I will take you where you need to go.

Never, ever tempt fate. It will get you almost every time.

....

The Voyager's transmission goes

And fate wasn't done with us. At 11 AM, Audouin was feeling better enough to decide that we would head to his parents' for lunch.

"Let's take the Voyager. It hasn't run in ages, and it really needs to be driven."

"Are you sure that's a good idea, to risk taking it on a two-hour drive when it hasn't been out of the garden since 2007?"

"It really needs to be driven." That wasn't much of an answer, but we got the iTrip, loaded the dogs and ourselves into the car and headed off. Heading into Dreux, about 45 minutes from home, Audouin said he didn't like the way it was handling. It felt like it was hesitating, shuddering.

"Either the tires are way under-inflated or over-inflated." He lifted his hands from the wheel to see what it would do. I rolled down the window and looked at the passenger side tires. They didn't look that bad.

By the other side of Dreux, on a stretch of four-lane highway heading into Le Boullay-Mivoye, it really slowed and started to buck a bit. The low-fuel light came on.

"Are we out of gas?"

"Didn't that just come on?"

"Yes, but I got caught once. It doesn't give you much warning; maybe it's broken and we are out?" He didn't think so, and we were just able to pull into a rest area where four semis, two from Spain and two from Portugal, were parked, while they're drivers had lunch under an awning, then settled in to watch satellite TV and wait for Monday to roll again. There was a trail of fluid behind us and a little puddle of purple-frothed liquid forming under the front bumper.

"I think it's the transmission leaking." He was quiet and looked around the engine block.

"Look,"I continued, "it isn't steaming, and the engine temperature indicator didn't go up. I think it's the transmission."

The tow truck guy agreed when he got there a little over an hour later. A leak. We wouldn't be having Mother's Day lunch with his parents.

"Did you hear a crack?" he asked Audouin.

"No."

"Then it probably isn't that bad." He hoisted it up while Sam and I helped the dogs back into the Voyager for their first solo trip in a car.

Sam and I both regretted having no camera with us when we turned to look back out the rear window of the tow truck to see Baccarat, looking forward between the two empty front seats of the minivan. Too bad we didn't put her in the driver's seat, I told Sam.

....

The driver left the Voyager at the side of the road near his chain-link fenced-in yard with an old yellow lab and another old German Shepard with lopsided ears.

"What's wrong with his ears?" asked Sam.

"I don't know. He's just old. Maybe that happens to straight-up ears."

I sat down on the curb and changed into the running shoes I happened to have had the forethought to bring before heading over the McDonald's to which the driver gave us directions. He looked at me there, changing out of my sandals, and then nodded in the direction of his big truck.

"If you can wait a minute, I can drive you over there myself in the truck. I'm leaving to go get that Porsche." He handed Audouin the number to call for a taxi, paid for by Mondial Assistance, our insurer's version of AAA and then saved a man, a teenager and a woman with two dogs from having to walk along a non-pedestrian road, including at least two rond-points.

We had to bodily lift both dogs up to the shoulder height floor of the cab. It was the first time Audouin suspected he could get bitten by Rapide, who took it rather well, all things considered.

I had to push them from behind to get them anywhere near the door on the way down.

....

We had a late lunch on the treeless terrace in the middle of a commercial zone along the National 12 that runs into Paris. It was actually one of the nicest lunches we have enjoyed together in a long time. Even Sam seem relaxed and zen in the face of our misfortune. The dogs hung out, tied to the legs of the benches, taking refuge from the hazy, humid sun.

....

When I was heading back out with our coffees, I heard a woman say to her husband, "Over there, to the left, I think."

"Are you American?"

"Yes? Are you?"

They were from Dallas and had been traveling in Europe since April 2nd, celebrating their wedding anniversary, and would be sailing back to NYC from London on the Queen Mary 2, successor to the QE2, in another two weeks or so.

....

The taxi arrived shortly before 4:30 PM, a little more than 3 hours after we had pulled into the rest area. A minivan, perfect for the dogs. The young man said he had decided to leave his Mercedes and bring the minivan when he heard we had two labs. They snoozed the 45 minute-drive back home.

It was actually kind of a fun adventure. Pointless, and maybe that was what made it pleasant. No one had a melt-down even.

....

The rain came, and words matter

Pink roses and lighter pink peonies

in yesterday's sun

Let's hope that "And the rain came" does not need to be amended to "And the rains came." Last year, they came, and like some are saying of the Clintons in the press today, went from being a welcome change to dragging a hose around to becoming the guest who wouldn't leave.

It rained hard and long. A downpour. Twice. Once during the afternoon, while I fell asleep next to Audouin, who was supposed to be sleeping, since he is the one who is sick (and has been all week), and again, after I came back in from a couple hours out in the yard working.

And what was I doing?

Close your eyes, Katie, you won't want to read this.

I was tearing up clumps of Poa annua and getting myself completely depressed, which is bad for my immune system, so I will probably get whatever Audouin has that I have managed to avoid so far. With every clump that came up, the roots were filled with... sand. I hate this. I hated it.

I creep around, alternately squatting and then on my knees to give my hips a rest. Forget my back. It just suffers. Audouin asked what I was doing when I came in for something at one point.

"Pulling up the bad weed grass from the lawn."

The groan was long, and had nothing to do with his sore throat.

The mosquitoes buzzed around my face and arms. I left my fleece jacket on to keep as covered as I could, and wilted in the humidity, overheated. I broke a finger nail on my right hand, and where it was torn it kept catching on blades of grass until I bit it off, sandy dirt on my teeth and tongue. A strand of hair came loose from the barrette and refused to stay behind my ear, sticking to my sweaty cheek, or to my hand every time I tried to push it back into place. I gasped when I caught site of a dessicated, recently dead frog next to me in the grass (one of the animals is guilty of frogicide, and I am loosing patience with the yet to be identified guilty party), and on and on I went, moving from clump to clump and tearing them out with my bare hands until I just couldn't take it anymore.

That was when I noticed that I had three points of blood on the inside of my left ankle.

Great. Flea-bitten, too.

I raised my spirits by reading the reader comments of the NYT Editorial Board piece, "Say What? Hillary Clinton Does it Again". That did it. Suddenly my unmowed lawn, now filled with bare patches in addition to the swaying seed heads of the remaining P. annua, seemed pretty good after all in a world gone nuts, and I managed to tear myself away to go take a bath and wash it all away -- dirt, sweat, desperation and disappointment, and disgust.

I think I preferred it when I was spared the temptation to see what the other readers think.

....

So, a word on the present political situation
(not that it matters or counts for anything)

I was heading home from my heath club in the Henri IV section of Mantes la Jolie (in France), when I ran straight into my favorite political pal, a gorgeous (Audouin thinks so, too), soccer-playing, politically-minded twenty-something.

"So, it's won chez toi!" he beamed. I hadn't seen him for a little while, so I was slow on the uptake, and because he said it in French -- the chez toi was what threw me off -- I actually thought he meant that I had gotten my way with the house renovations about to get underway, of all things. What is wrong with me? That explains my reply.

"Yes, but how did you know?"

"It's in the news, with what Hillary said." Suddenly, I got it. Not my house, but my country of origin. OK. He launched into a report of her comments and the firestorm they generated, and I realized that you can't not read the blogosphere and mainstream media for a day without missing something major. "You haven't seen it?"

I admitted that I hadn't, but now I have.

....

What I haven't done is seen her make the actual comments in context. The problem is that I don't think that anything explains the necessity to refer to the assassination, no matter which candidate I support. This isn't about being a supporter of Senator Obama because I was never against Senator Clinton, at least not until fairly recently. Worse, the historical factual basis of her comparisons was worse than specious. It nearly had to have been disingenuous.

I supported them throughout the worst of the 1990's. I spoke of my admiration of President Clinton all through the Bush II years.

I supported her run for Senator, although as a resident of Connecticut at that time, I couldn't vote for her. I read The System and of the admiration both sides of the aisle on Capitol Hill had for her. But, I heard Barack Obama speak in 1994 and throughout the earliest months of the primary campaign, and I was for him, still not against Senator Clinton.

I have supported her right to stay in the race, as long as her support hovered in the 1-3% margin of difference in the popular vote -- as best as it can be measured -- and she had a chance of collecting the necessary number of delegates.

But, why mention the assassination if you don't have a reason? Why pick that example? How can you not include the Obama family in the apology if you are going to make a lame one to the Kennedys?

Why try to walk the infinitely fine line that she has tried to make between acknowledging the importance of the events of the 1960's -- of which Senator Obama has no problem identifying himself as the child politically and morally, and with which she was aligned in her own political beginnings -- but giving credit for their fruit to President Johnson, and now putting the assassination of RFK directly in the public's eye, raising, intentionally or inadvertently, the specter of an attempt on Senator Obama's life and her own readiness to step in and assume the nomination? To do what? To not alienate the white vote by avoiding being identified with the black interest?

Well, I'll tell you what, I'd rather lose the election than get that vote, by whatever strategy she and her campaign devises, to get a Democratic president in the White House in 2009.

....

In 2008, race eclipses gender, as it always should, because there are men and women of all races, and they suffer -- or benefit -- equally, and I am listening to what the candidates say and what it means to those of us listening.

I'll say again that it isn't only in The United States that people are paying close attention. It's of importance here, too, and non-Americans are very informed and interested because Senator Obama speaks to what is of importance to people everywhere. He has risen above lines on maps to talk to people around the world. He has achieved international stature through his vision, like John F. Kennedy did 45 years ago in Berlin.

"The West Berliners gave John Kennedy the most overwhelming reception of his career... The size of the crowd, their shouts and the look of hope and gratitude in their eyes moved some in our party to tears ... It was on the platform outside that City Hall -- from where I could see only a sea of human faces chanting "Kenne-dy," "Kenne-dy" as far as my vision could reach -- that he delivered one of his most inspired and inspiring talks."
-- Theodore Sorenson, Kennedy (http://www.orwelltoday.com/jfkberlin.shtml)

West Berlin, East Germany
June 26, 1963

"Two thousand years ago the proudest boast was 'Civis Romanus sum'.
Today, in the world of freedom, the proudest boast is,

'Ich bin ein Berliner!'

There are many people in the world who really don't understand, or say they don't,
what is the great issue between the free world and the Communist world.

Let them come to Berlin!

There are some who say that Communism is the wave of the future.

Let them come to Berlin!

...And there are even a few who say that it is true that Communism is an evil system,
but it permits us to make economic progress.

'Lasst sie nach Berlin kommen.'

Freedom has many difficulties and democracy is not perfect,
but we have never had to put a wall up to keep our people in... .

While the wall is the most obvious and vivid demonstration of the failures of the Communist system -- for all the world to see -- we take no satisfaction in it;
for it is, as your Mayor has said, an offense not only against history
but an offense against humanity...

Freedom is indivisible, and when one man is enslaved, all are not free...
We look forward to that day when this city will be joined as one
-- and this country, and this great continent of Europe --
in a peaceful and hopeful globe.
When that day finally comes, as it will,
the people of West Berlin can take sober satisfaction in the fact
that they were in the front lines for almost two decades.

All free men, wherever they may live, are citizens of Berlin,
and, therefore, as a free man, I take pride in the words,

'Ich bin ein Berliner.'"

....

Words matter

Everyone knows that words count and what you say matters. Even schoolchildren know that before they are shamed for theirs, or they wouldn't hurl insults and derision at the weak. Stick and stones may break bones, but names do hurt, as any child forced to chant that knows. The damage already done.

Don't talk to me about fatigue nearing the end of a long primary run. Every president puts on years in the White House (except Bush II). You have to be able to withstand the fatigue and never use it as your excuse, or allow anyone to do that for you.

No one forced 75,000 people to fill the lawn and water of Waterside Park in Portland, Oregon nearly a week ago, just like no one forced the people of Berlin to take to the street and chant "Kenne-dy!" millions strong.

Words matter, or we wouldn't make speeches. Words matter, or Barack Obama's at the Democratic National Convention in 2004 would never have pushed him to the center of our political and electoral life in 2008, nor would his two books have sold millions of copies.

Hillary had that to remember. If she is best as a policy wonk, then she belongs in the legislative branch or as an adviser. A president must be able to do more than write legislation. She must guide the legislative agenda, but she must lead the country, and for that, wisdom, courage, strength of character, vision and the ability to give presence to those qualities in words matters.

....

To those who would say "Enough already! This is trivial," no, I say, it isn't at all. Iraq, $4.00 a gallon gasoline, Iran, Syria, Lebanon and Israel and health care reform are all important, but this is about the person we Democrats and those Independents who voted in the Democratic primaries are selecting to be our nominee for the general presidential election in November, the person we choose to take on every important issue we, and the world, face together.
....

The other Ghislaine de Féligonde presents a rose

A lesson in orientation
When less sunlight is good, depending on your preferences

A plant comes with a ticket from the nursery. It says it is a Ghislaine de Féligonde. You have seen pictures of it. You have even seen one in your friend's garden, and you just loved those apricot hues. (Not that I saw one anywhere that I can remember, other than on-line.)

Your plant comes home from the garden store covered in buds. You plant it, and wait.

The first bud to begin to open is... creamy? You check the nursery label. It looks official. The canes match the description of the plant, and so do the clusters of buds, the leaves.

The rose opens, the palest of Devon cream -- not apricot at all. How can it be?

Orientation, perhaps? How and when it receives the sun. Just look at the difference between the first two roses to open, one on each plant. I thought the one under the protection of the weeping mulberry, about to produce tons of berries, received less sun, but I suspect that it actually receives more filtered sunlight for a longer period of the day. Hence, its paler coloring. The other plant receives direct sunlight in the afternoon to late afternoon, and the fact that it is direct does not make it more light. Hence, its nuanced and deeper colors.

Some flowers have better coloring in the sunshine, some in the shade. You can't go by the species of plant, but by individual varieties. That's why we love our plant books and the Internet when we are lacking in experience!

That's one explanation I have seen. But it doesn't explain why some buds on the same plant are of one coloring and others completely different. I suppose it is like children from two parents. They don't all look alike, even when they come from the same plant, for the truth is that I have deep-rose tinged buds on the plant that produced the first, cream flower.

Accept no pat explanations! Accept variety.

....

Lonicera misidentification?

I also suspect that the nursery that supplied the Lonicera x heckrottii 'Goldflame' to Florosny made a mistake, either that or their breeding efforts are not tops. These look much more like one of the L. x heckrottii parents, L. x americana, their coloring being far more yellow with a purplish color to the trumpet and the buds, than reddish-orange that is the signature of the 'Goldflame' honeysuckle. The leaves are also lighter in color like the L. x americana.
....

A partially open bud only yesterday

Ghislaine de Féligonde Rose

Rambler rose, Turbat 1916

Interestingly, this plant is more in the shade than the other one, which has much more apricot in the bud. I say interestingly because the plants in shadier areas are said to have the deeper coloring, but in this case, it's the opposite. This was a uniformly yellow bud that opened fully in the space of the afternoon, the first. The smaller photo to the right is a bud from the other bush, planted the same day in the sunnier location around the gazebo.

....

The Pool

The water is quite clear, pH ended up a little low (it was actually fine when they thought it was high, and I lowered it a little, but the weather will bring it back up), and for some reason, the chlorine barely registers. Sabine had to test it three different ways before we detected it. It's light, but since the water is too cold to go in now, unless you are my friend Karen, we don't need a very substantial chlorine level.

This photo is taken from the inside of the gazebo, where we eat now in the summer, and where I can work on warm, sunny days, once I am intrepid enough to carry my laptop, extension cable (for electricity, until we get it hooked back up), books and drawing stuff down there.

In the lower left hand corner, you can just make out leaves and unopened buds from the Ghislaine de Féligonde that produced the top flower today.

Yesterday I scrubbed the sides under the crown and spent hours and hours pruning and cleaning around the pool, the Corsica Blue rosemary, the heather that had far outgrown its area under the Pieris japonica, a white-flowering pieris, whose new leaves are red turning green or variegated and, which I pruned heavily to let light in under it so the heather I cut out would grow back in where it is supposed to be (if at all) and not practically hanging over the edge of the pool, stretching as far as it can on wiry stems looking for sunlight, and an Aucuba japonica, untouched for heaven knows how long, which I cut in half, discovering a Nandina domestica that was completely and thoroughly obscured by it.

The worst is pruning the ivy. It makes me sneeze repeatedly.

....

The Mosquitoes

They are so large and so bold as to nearly stay still enough to present themselves for a portrait alongside the dog and the flowers I am photographing.

Just awful this year, and already for a few weeks. Really.

Thank goodness I have a spray bottle of Cutters and another of Off from the States. I use them freely. So do our guests, but Audouin refuses. He'll use Paco Rabanne (until I xnayed it and since then he has refused to let me shop with him for one I prefer), but NO sun products and NO bug spray. That's fine by me, get eaten alive and keep your jeans and shirt on in the heat, while the rest of us slather up with our non-greasy 35 and 50 creams and "asperge" ourselves with Cutters.

Asperger. One of my favorite French words. It means to drizzle something, like olive oil and Balsamic vinegar on arugula (I'm with you, Barack). I believe you may use it with impunity for the application of parfumes and bug spray, as well.

That's Rapide. Baccarat was sniffing around somewhere behind me. I could hear her. To Rapide's right (my left) is the bank of St. John's Wort where the snake is believed to live. I haven't seen him since the other morning, but I talk to him.
....

A letter to Senator Ted Kennedy and 75,000

75,000
Portland, Oregon
Sunday, May 18, 2008

A letter to Senator Ted Kennedy, and a message to all of us.

May 21, 2008

Dear Senator Kennedy,

I could not have been more shaken had the news of your seizure and diagnosis been someone from my own family. As an American, I suppose you are my family. The Kennedys are our nation's family.

My mother worked some years ago for a Democratic think-tank in Washington, where John Jr. did a summer internship. It was an experience my mother will never forget, getting to know John the little that she did and to appreciate him as much as she did, handing him the phone when his mother called, asking to speak to her son, Jackie Kennedy Onassis on the other end of the line. I was born the year before you were first elected to the senate, disappointed my mother by not coming home from LA to DC to meet John myself, and grew up with the ideals of the Democratic Party and the 1960's, the Kennedy era, as the foundation of my personal and political structure.

I was little, but no one born in 1961 could have been too young in the 1960's not to understand the beginning of the contractions our nation was experiencing socially and ethically to bring us to our ideal. I felt betrayed later by the efforts to keep us from realizing our destiny and our greatness, and I am proud and moved that on Sunday 75,000 people came to hear Senator Obama address them in Oregon. To see a biracial man, his black wife and their two daughters before that crowd was a moment I will never forget. Times have changed, and the pendulum is swinging back as time moves forward and does its work. Perhaps it had to be someone born in 1961, come to maturity at this time, to pick up the thread of the time of our childhood, and all it meant. Maybe that is what destiny means.

It is too bitter an irony for me that at a moment when the planets are aligning to bring life back into that political and social spirit, at a moment when the candidate you have chosen to back is about to move on to the acceptance of our party's nomination for the presidential election and to win it -- and I am sure that he will, because he -- who resembles perhaps more closely your brother Robert than John -- alone has dared not only to speak of your brother John, but to pick up the mantle of what John F. Kennedy meant to Americans, and people around the world, of all faiths, persuasions, races and classes, has dared to use his ideas and terms of speech and made them believable because he believes them, and because they are true, has asked us to accept the burden of our own responsibility at the side of our president and our government and make our country be what we want it to be, and because after so much betrayal and so much loss, Americans are yearning to believe again.

How is it that at this moment, you are asked to fight this personal battle?

Senator Kennedy, our nation needs you like never before to help Barack Obama -- my classmate from Barnard/Columbia 1983 -- accomplish the work that he has set out to do. My every thought and prayer is with you for your success in beating this brain cancer so that you can lead the effort on the Hill and win the health care battle. History owes you that. We Americans and our elected representatives owe you and ourselves that.

I will personally do everything in my power to help. My husband is an ob/gyn in the public hospital system in France, working in one of the top three Paris area hospitals for maternal and fetal medicine, and has been for more than 25 years. He is an extraordinary doctor and surgeon, respected by all his colleagues. I have known him for 20 years and moved to France to marry him 6 years ago. To watch him and his colleagues work is to know why more than 90 senators and congress people were right in supporting a single-payer system, such as France, Canada, the UK and most of Europe enjoy.

I know that government-run health care doesn't in the least diminish choice or quality of medical care. On the contrary, it alone enhances and guarantees both, and I will write to every member of Mybarackobama.com to talk about that and ask people to continue to work beyond the election in November to make sure that no opposition effort can be mounted during this administration to block true, universal, affordable health care reform. Every American who stands with Senator Obama for the change we believe in and the government we want must stand again and be heard to make this reform the nation's law and your legacy.

Get well, Senator Kennedy, we love, admire and support you and your family, and as Paul S. Grogan was reported in this morning’s New York Times as having said, we need our Horatio at the helm.

Sincerely yours,

Sisyphe

“I am asking you to believe. Not just in my ability to bring about real change in Washington… I’m asking you to believe in yours.”

-- Senator Barack Obama
....

Mondays, for want of inspiration

Sunday, clouds moving back in

(from the left corner of the principle terrace)

For those of you who don't know or remember this place, the house is to my right, and I am at the edge of the planting bed where the terrace drops to the narrow strip of lawn bordered by the raised planting beds of the second terrace below. The terra cotta pots of rosemary and anthemis mark the central stair to the lowest level, and the stairs on either side to the intermediary terraces.

You can just make out the urns of Surfinias, Calibrachoa and Diaschia and the leaves of the Hemerocallis along the right intermediate terrace. They serve the role of decorating the concrete railing that prevents one from falling the 3 meters to the bottom level.

On the left side, there is nothing to keep one from continuing straight on once the stairs end and stepping onto a fragile trellis beyond that covers the unused heat pump for the pool. Guests nearly did exactly that the other day, throwing Audouin into a panic for the youngest, a niece and our friends' 8-year-old daughter. I figured rightly that they needed to almost do it only once to get the hang of the left-turn at the bottom of the steps, along between the forsythia and the St. John's Wort, and on down the precarious steps to the gazebo.

The white-flowering tree marks the edge of our property. The taller trees and the bit of light green field beyond belonging to various others, although we have the benefit of open space projecting on beyond the limits of our own garden.

....

And, another first
The Clematis 'Nelly Moser' opens

It remains as insignificant as the Beautybush in front of it, but the first bloom has appeared.

Next year, it will grow faster, having established itself. I will be hoping for the entire 2 meter high ivy-covered wall to be a mass of blooms.

....

The pool

Is coming along. Thank you for inquiring.

I'll let you know when you can bring your suit and towel and enjoy a sunbath and refreshing dip.
....

Pool's open!

and the water's...

... clear, but the bottom is thick and green!

Je vous prie de bien vouloir patienter pour la version française, qui ne doit pas trop se tarder à arriver.

19 mai
Ca il y est. Elle est tout en bas.

We should call this Pool pump saga, Chapter 3.

Audouin went Thursday and got the PVC piping he needed, along with another shut-off valve so we don't have to grope around behind the door in the near-dark for the vacuum, skimmers and bottom drain valves every time we need to close them to open the pump filter to empty the basket, or turn off the pump -- his good idea is that we turn this one between the pump and the others to keep the water in the lines -- and spent all of Saturday sawing and fitting pipe, making connections and then hooking up the motor.

Unfortunately, the wiring diagram was in German, and the wires were not the usual colors for the line voltage, neutral and ground, so he felt a little nervous doing what he was pretty sure was right to connect it. I don't blame him. Do it wrong and that could be nearly 600 euros down the drain (ha ha).

"Do you want me to call Mike?" That's my brother-in-law near Philly. A very handy person for anything and everything.

"That might be a good idea." So, I scrambled to find my old address book with my sister's cell phone number in it (nearly 8 years old, but who changes their number these days?) and called them at the edge of the baseball diamond. My younger nephew had a game, if it weren't rained out. It rang.

"Hello?"

"You didn't change your number!"

"No-oo," a little chuckle, and then, "who is this?"

"Your sister." She laughed out loud. I haven't called her on her cell phone in probably 6 years. I could feel her relief -- it was only someone a little bit crazy. "Is Mike next to you?" She handed the phone over, while I yelled for Audouin to come back from watching the dogs out the bottom gate, by the field, to ask his question.

"I told you what it was. Can't you just ask him?"

"Yeah, but he'll probably have another one that I won't be able to answer."

"Just ask him what "R" means."

"Resistance?" Mike offered, but it didn't make sense to him. "Can you send me a picture?"

"I don't have your phone number."

"I get my email on my phone." Oh. Right.

I love the 21st century. Back in the 20th, only as far back as when I was a kid, it was a big deal to call internationally. Now, my French husband has a doubt on the pool pump wiring, his American wife calls her brother-in-law in the States, where he is watching his younger son play baseball, and half an hour later, he has received three digital photos of the wiring diagram and the wiring box and emailed back to say-- since the "R" was actually an "L" -- that "L" has to mean "line voltage" and to go ahead and connect her up the way Audouin thought he should.

Back at the pump in the near dark (the last bulb burned out), connect a few wires, flip the switch, and Hmmmmmmmmm -- a lovely new pool pump whirs into action. Quiet as a Prius.

Yes, he is smiling happily in that blurry picture.

....

This morning, we took off the cover -- covered with a ton of rotted leaves (I hear you Mom, the thing you bought, I know) that made it weigh, well, a ton -- and I poured in the algae killer, the pH corrector (it was almost right on, unbelievably) and filled the skimmers with chlorine shock tablets and headed back to see where he had disappeared for so long.

"It's leaking all over, and if it's what I think it is, then my work is bad, and it's bad." Always the pessimist.

He spent a rotten half hour, but it was the joint from the top of the pump to the waste line (or something like that), and after taking it apart several times, he got it to work just fine. It's a beautiful thing. My heart was singing! We might even be able to turn the bottom drain back on for a better circulation of water. The old pump was the same, but it worked nowhere near as well as this one. I can actually see the water in the skimmers agitate and the water move around the pool without the help of us in it, flailing our limbs. What is crystal clear is that the old pump was on its last legs. This is going to be a much easier season for maintenance.

As for wildlife, Audouin and I removed 3 frogs, and I found another 2 awhile later when I went to recheck the chlorine level and add more shock. Don't tell him. I put those two in the basin up by the house, with the others and the fish. The first three I did as he preferred, saying something about when we finally empty the basin to fix the leak, it will be just more frogs to deal with, and carried them in the tin watering can over to the bras mort of the Seine -- still water in a sort of side arm of the river -- accompanied by Rapide and Baccarat. I fell on my rear, losing footing on the slippery, vine covered bank, but managed to get them into the water with the ducks and the other frogs.

Tonight, I add the stuff that makes the algae clump together, turn off the pump, and in the morning, it all gets vacuumed to waste. In a few days, we should have a clear blue pool, but still far too cold for anyone over 8 years old.

All's well that ends well, for now.
....

et l’eau est…
claire, mais le fond est épais et vert !

On devrait appeler ceci la saga de la pompe de la piscine, chapitre 3.

Audouin alla jeudi et acheta la plomberie nécessaire pour le raccordement de la pompe, avec encore une vanne pour que nous n’avions pas à chercher à tâtons les vannes du balai; des skimmers et de la bombe de fond chaque fois que nous devons les fermer à fin d’ouvrir la pompe pour vider le panier ou arrêter la filtration. Maintenant, nous pouvons les fermer tous les trois avec une seule vanne entre la pompe et les vannes pour chacun des tuyaux. Il consacra toute sa journée samedi à couper et raccorder la tuyauterie et à connecter l’électricité.

Malheureusement, le diagramme électrique fut en allemand, et les fils ne furent pas les couleurs habituelles pour le chaud, le neutre et la terre, alors il se sentit un peu nerveux à faire ce qu’il fut quasi certain était correct. Je le comprenais. Connecte les mauvais fils et cela pourrait résulter en 600 euros perdus.

"Tu veux que j’appelle Mike?" Mike est mon beau-frère aux Etats-Unis, près de Philadelphia. C’est quelqu’un doué en tout, et je l’appelle pour me dépanner en tout et n’importe quoi, surtout en informatique et en électricité ?

"Oui, je pense que ça serait une bonne idée." Alors, je courus aller cherche mon ancien carnet d’adresse avec le numéro du portable de ma sœur (il date d’il y a 8 ans, mais qui change de numéro de portable ces temps-ci ?) et les appeler au bord du diamant de baseball. Mon neveux, le plus jeunes des deux, eut un match de baseball, s’il ne faisait pas un temps trop moche. Il sonna.

"Allo?"

"Ah, t’as pas changé de numéro!"

"Non," elle gloussa, et puis "c’est qui?"

"Ta soeur." Elle rit. Je ne l’avais pas appeler sur son portable depuis un bon 6 ans. Je pouvais sentir son soulagement – c’était quelqu’un juste un tout petit peu fou. "Est-ce que Mike est là à côté de toi?" Elle lui passa le portable le temps que je hurlai après Audouin pour qu’il revienne de là où je l’avais envoyer rester garder les chiennes l’autre côté du portail en bas, dans le chemin qui longe le champs, pour qu’il pose sa question. Il s’énerva.

"Je te l’ai déjà dit. C’est quoi le “R” et le “N”. Je pense que le “N” est “neutre”, mais c’est quoi le “R” ? Tu ne peux pas juste lui poser la question?"

"Oui, mais il aura probablement une autre à laquelle je ne pourrais pas répondre."

"Demande lui juste qu’est-ce qu’il veut dire le “R”, s’il te plait."

"Résistance?" offert Mike, mais cela ne lui faisait pas de sens. "Pourrais-tu m’envoyer une photo?"

"Mais je n’ai pas ton numéro."

"Je reçoit l'email sur mon portable." Mais oui. C’est vrai. Je n’y ai pas pensé.

J’adore le 21ème siècle. Si on remonte seulement aussi loin que mon enfance dans le 20ème siècle, c’était déjà une histoire d’appeler international. Aujourd’hui, mon mari français a un soucis pour la connexion électrique de la pompe de la piscine, sa femme américaine appelle son beau-frère aux States, où il est en train d’assister à un match de baseball de l’un de ses enfants, et une demi heure plus tard, il a reçu trois photo numériques du diagramme électrique et du moteur et a envoyé une réponse pour dire – puisque le “R” fut un “L” à la fin de compte – que le “N” doit être “neutre” et le “L” doit vouloir dire “line voltage”, ou le chaud, et se concerta avec Audouin. Une fois à nouveau à la pompe dans le pénombre, car la dernière ampoule s’est grillée le moment où je l'allumai, connecte quelques fils, allume, et Hmmmmmmmmm – une superbe nouvelle pompe de piscine se met en route. Silencieuse comme un Prius.

Oui, il est en train de sourire à la pompe dans cette photo.

....

Ce matin, nous enlevâmes la bâche – qui fut couverte avec un ton de feuilles mortes qui furent que la bâche pesa, bon, un ton – et je mis le produit qui tue les algues, le correcteur de pH (qui fut Presque bon, incroyablement), et remplis les skimmers de chlore choc et allai voir où fut disparut Audouin depuis si longtemps. Il fut là à côté de la pompe.

"Ca fuit de partout, et si c’est ce que je pense que c’est, alors mon travail et mauvais, et c’est très mauvais." Toujours le pessimiste.

Il passa une demie heure de merde, mais heureusement pour lui, la pompe fuyait d’une connexion en haut de la pompe, où elle s’accord au refoulement, et après l’avoir détaché raccordé plusieurs fois, il réussit à la faire marcher sans problème. Ce fut une chose de beauté. Mon cœur chantait ! Nous allons même pouvoir, peut-être, décondamner la bombe de fond pour regagner une meilleure circulation de l’eau. La vielle pompe fut de la même puissance, mais elle ne marcha plus de tout aussi bien que cette nouvelle pompe. Je peux voir l’eau tourner dans les skimmers et circuler vigoureusement dans la piscine dans l’assistance de nos bras et nos jambes. Ce qui est très clair est que la vielle pompe fut en fin de vie. Cette saison va être beaucoup plus facile en entretien de la piscine.

A ce qui concerne la nature dans la piscine, Audouin récupérâmes 3 grenouilles, et je trouvai encore 2 plus tard quand j’allai vérifier le niveau de chlore et rajouter de produit. Ne lui dites pas. Je mis ces deux là dans le basin près de la maison, avec les grenouilles qui y habitant déjà et les poisons rouges. Pour les trois premières, je fis comme préféra Audouin, disant quelque chose comme quand nous allions en fin vider le basin pour réparer sa fuite, nous n’aurons qu’encore des grenouilles à sauver, et je les amenai dans un arrosoir jusqu’au bras mort de la Seine, accompagnée par Rapide et Baccarat. Je tombai sur les fesses, perdant pied sur le bord glissant et couvert de vignes, mais réussis à les libérer dans l’eau avec les canards et les autres grenouilles. Celles qui n’ont toujours pas découvert notre piscine.

Ce soir, je rajoute le floculant, arête la pompe, et demain matin, je l’aspire aux égouts. Dans quelques jours de plus, nous devrions avoir une piscine d’un bleu clair comme de cristal, mais encore trop froid pour tout ceux qui ont plus que huit ans.

Tout est bien qui fini bien, à présent.
....

Temps variable

Les fleurs de l'Arbre de Judée, Cercis siliquastrum

font leurs fruits en gousses aplaties verts

Pour toi, la seule amie française (je pense) qui lit ce blog, j'écris ce mot en français. Il sera bref aujourd'hui, car je produis des traductions des dernières entrées en français. J'avais été un peu paresseuse car je savais que tu avais été en vacances sans accès à un ordinateur, et, en suite, prise par le boulot.

Il fait un temps affreux ajourd'hui. Des moments de forte pluie alternant avec de belles éclaircies. Vous alliez venir cet après-midi... heureusement vous avez décidé finalement de venir dimanche dernier, avant l'arrivée des orages.

Ou, vous venez encore et je n'ai pas fait les courses et ne suis pas préparée de tout!

Bisous.
....

Exquisite grace and delicacy

Lonicera x heckrottii 'Goldflame'

Goldflame Honeysuckle

Pour la version française -- disponible de temps en autre encore un petit moment, si quelqu'un la lit de temps en temps -- naviguer en bas, svp.

There is really nothing to say when you look at this. I wish you could lean in close and breathe in the light fragrance. The plants, in for about 10 days now, are sending up little shoots, and the Ghislaine de Féligonde Roses (Turbat, 1916) -- a musk rambler that gives clusters of orange-yellow roses, turning to creamy buff in the hot sun, but tolerates shade, where its color is enhanced, and poorer soils -- that will intertwine with the honeysuckle and clematis in velvety red-violet, is starting to open.

Having shared my views on Jhumpa Lahiri's The Namesake -- hotly received by a couple of the members of our book discussion group, one of whom very graciously conceded that I had a point concerning a certain lack of character development and stereotyping among the secondary characters and suggested that I read Lahiri's latest work, Unaccustomed Earth, and her first highly-regarded and award-grabbing collection of short stories Interpreter of Maladies -- I later cringed in yet more shame for having not kept them just a little bit more to myself.

I'm not sure that book discussion groups, even among very bright and highly educated, independently-minded women is really intended for literary criticism, and I have decided that I am better among my plants and their flowers, reinforcing my deepening tendency toward solitude and reflection (read paranoia).

At least they have the qualities that I am missing.

....

Lonicera x heckrottii 'Goldflame'
Chèvrefeuille Goldflame

Il n'y a rien à dire de plus quand on regarde cette photo. J'aimerais que vous puissiez vous pencher près d'elle et sentir son parfum délicat. Les plantes, en place pour à peu près 10 jours, sont en train de pousser des nouvelles pousses vers le soleil, et les rosiers Ghislaine de Féligonde (Turbat, 1916) -- un rosier liane, sarmenteux, au parfum musqué et sucré, très remontant donnant des bouquets de petites roses abricot virant au crème pale en plein soleil, mais qui supporte très bien un mur nord (sa couleur restant plus intense) et même un sol pauvre -- qui s'enchevêtrera avec le chèvrefeuille et les clématites en rouge-violet velouté, commence à ouvrir.

Ayant partagé mes avis sur le romain The Namesake de Jhumpa Lahiri -- assez sévèrement reçus par deux des membres de notre group de discussion de littérature, l'une des deux concéda qu'il y avait du mérite dans mes critiques sur son développement des personnages, à part les principaux, et suggéra que je lis son tout dernier, Unaccustomed Earth, et son premier, une collection de histoires courtes, qui fut très bien reçu et primé, Interpreter of Maladies -- je regrettai en suite et me récriminai de ne les pas avoir gardés un tout petit peu plus à moi-même.

Je ne suis pas convaincue que les groupes de discussion de la littérature, même entre des femmes brillantes et fort éduquées, indépendantes d'esprit ait vraiment pour but la critique littéraire, et vue de mes failles de tempérament, je me suis décidée que je ferais mieux de rester parmi mes plantes et ses fleurs, renforçant ma tendance à la solitude et à la réflexion (voir paranoïa).

Au moins elles ont ces qualités que je manque.
....