A lovely little Arc de Triomphe, thoughtfully sent to my by a dear friend in Texas who also loves France!
A lovely little Arc de Triomphe, thoughtfully sent to my by a dear friend in Texas who also loves France!
This is the tale of a crochet book that I owned for two years and never used and the yarn I owned for eight years and could never use up. I’ll give you a hint — it has a happy ending.
Let’s start with the yarn, because it’s older. When we lived in France, there was a tiny sewing notions shop 30 seconds from the front door of my apartment building. The lady who owned it also had a display rack of yarn that she would wheel out onto the sidewalk on nice days. It was basically a many-armed coat tree with bags of yarn in all colors hanging from it. I can’t remember how much I paid for it, but I seemed to think it was a good deal. I believe there were twenty 50 gram skeins of yarn in there. I bought it with the intention of making my mom a sweater. And I did. But there was more. So I made my French friend, Stephanie, a diaper cover for her baby. And there was still more. So I made a baby blanket and a long skinny scarf and there was still more. This was the yarn that would never die. It reminds me of the Bible story where the widow pours out oil into jars and it just keeps coming. No shortage of oil and no shortage of blue French yarn.
The book I bought a few years later was through a craft book club. It’s called Crochet So Fine by Kristin Omdahl. I was captivated by the lacy purple wrap featured on the front cover. I had just been the recipient of two fairly large skeins of hunter green laceweight yarn and figured that this book would give me a good use for it (I haven’t used that yarn yet because I have no idea how much of it I really have and I’m paranoid to start a project and find out it’s not enough). I was flipping through the book again a few weeks ago and noticed that not all of the patterns used thread or laceweight yarn. In fact, there are a few that use DK/sportweight yarn. And one of them just happened to be a cardigan, which I need. I feel weird in church wearing a heavy corduroy jacket over my nice dresses just ’cause my arms are cold.
The pattern I used is called Pearl’s Cardigan. I liked it because it looked feminine and pretty without being overly delicate. I needed it to have enough coverage to keep me warm, but liked the open areas that keep it from looking too dense.
I really liked the way this pattern worked up. It began with the yoke and worked down all in one piece. The sleeves are crocheted in the round directly onto the sweater. No seams whatsoever! I likes it. I did get a little nervous when it came to the sleeves because I was finally (finally!!!) running out of yarn. I managed to eke out just enough, though, by unraveling a solitary sleeve from some other project using the same yarn (two strands together, boo-ya). I spent a lot of time winding little yarn balls for this. But it was enough!
Wiggly jiggly flip-floppin’ squirmy wormies. What?? Or Turtles, I suppose, although they generally aren’t associated with a lot of spastic movements, outside of Wiggly Turtle Toobies. I didn’t invent that, but I wish I did.
Now, how about in French? Gigoteuse, Turbulette. Probably means just about as much to you, doesn’t it? Loosely translated, they mean “for wiggling” and “for squirming.” But the word I like the best is nid d’ange: angel nest. Why am I telling you all this? Because they are all words for what English-speakers know as sleepsacks or baby buntings. The French names are so much more evocative, don’t you think? Can’t you see the wiggly, squirmy babies kicking away in their sacks like little cocooned worms? (Technically, larvae, but that’s just not cute).
I don’t really remember seeing sleepsacks on babies before moving to France. My baby brother, who is ten years younger than me, never wore one. None of the babies I babysat through high school had one. It’s kind of a new trend in the States. Now you see them much more frequently, but they are far different from the beautiful styles we saw in France. Once we saw those, we wondered why they had ever lost popularity over here. I’m hoping to revive interest!
Rana, being our first child, was our first baby to wear a sleepsack. After she was born, the nurses cleaned her all up and dressed her in a white sleeper and the softest, puffiest white sleepsack, embroidered with “American Hospital of Paris.” We didn’t get to keep that one, but she had three store-bought hand-me-downs — all the lovely sleeveless, quilted cotton styles. Three may seem excessive, but when you think about how often a baby spits up or has a leaky diaper, it was sometimes not enough!
When we returned from France, I saw the flimsy fleece sleepsacks being sold around here and was so disappointed that were no other offerings, that I decided to start making my own. I’ve given a few as gifts, and now I have three in my etsy store. I used the French sacks as inspiration and I’ve made a few tweaks to my pattern each time I make one. At first, I was making the bottom edge too square, which made it difficult to insert the zipper. Later, I switched to snaps at the shoulders instead of buttons. Then, I lengthened the back shoulder strap just a bit so that it would lie down flatter over the baby’s shoulder. Most recently, I started using rib knit instead of bias tape for the trim and cotton batting instead of polyester batting for people who might prefer that option.
I like the European-style sleepsacks because:
Right now, the sleepsacks I have available will fit a baby up to about 6 months (store link is on the right). I have more fabric destined to be sleepsacks (teddy bears, little green and brown birds and more retro puppies & kitties). They’re kind of fun to make. I’ve learned a lot sewing them, like how to completely enclose the edges of the zipper so there is nothing to scratch the baby; how to best sew on the trim to give a neat finish; what order to do everything to get the best results. I had to write it all down so that I wouldn’t forget how to do it right! I should probably make a copy of that little paper.
If you’re having a baby or need to give a baby gift to someone, please consider my sleepsacks! And if you have fabric ideas or requests, let me know! I’m happy to do custom orders. Just imagine that cuddly, squirmy little sack of cuteness.
Look at this! Today is the tenth installment of French Friday! We should do something to celebrate. How about we take over the world. En avant!
(All photos by my family)
First, we need a headquarters. Choose somewhere that’s close to an established population center, maybe near – but not in – the former seat of government. After all, you want everybody to know that this is a new regime. Paris was officially the capital of France, but it had not been the seat of power since Louis XIV decided to take his toys and play somewhere else back in 1682. Versailles is beautiful, it’s true, but maybe not the best place to reestablish power after that nasty Revolution thing. What about…
The Château de Malmaison! Situated in the town of Rueil-Malmaison, it was built (and built and built) between 1610 and 1686, and came with a large domain. Good job, Josephine! You’ve got an eye for real estate! It’s a little bit of a fixer-upper, but we’ll have it looking great in no time. Hire a couple of fancy architects and a landscaper and voilà! your seat of power is ready. There’s going to be a lot of business to conduct, so let’s outfit this place with a suitable meeting room.
It has to look manly so what better decor than to mimic a military tent and then decorate the walls with friezes of helmets and weapons from glorious armies of the past. And also…
A portrait of your mom. Don’t worry, Josephine, you have your own portrait on the other side of the fireplace.
After a few intense rounds of Risk, we need some sustenance. Good thing this isn’t a real war tent. Instead of going to the mess hall, we can dine here:
I bet there were some good dinners served here. No mystery meat or unpalatable cafeteria gruel. And that table is like a mirror; that should promote good manners. After dinner, the gentlemen can retire to the billiards room.
And the ladies won’t be left out! There’s a lovely music room at the end of the hall decorated with Josephine’s favorite paintings, especially those of flowers, and a harp and harpsichord for your enjoyment.
After a long day of being the ruler of the known world, you’ll need a comfy place to retire for the night, but not too ostentatious.
Josephine, you’ve got a nice little bed, too, also draped in silk. It’s a pretty good feeling to be so rich that you can just hang yards of silk from the walls.
But, in the event that you are feeling ostentatious, you can always sleep in the other bedchamber.
Once upon a time, Malmaison had a domain of 1,793 acres, but after changing hands a few times, the land was slowly broken off into private lots. Now there are only about 15 acres of land left around the château, but it’s still more than you’d want to mow by yourself.
There’s lots more to see at Malmaison and entry is just 3€. Plus, you can also have a picnic in the Bois Préau, opposite Malmaison, and that’s free. If you ever go to Paris, take a day to visit the town of Rueil and the home of its most famous residents.
This week’s French Friday begins in the U.S. Washington State, then through Idaho and Wyoming on the way to Colorado, and back up through Utah and Idaho (again) to end in Olympia, WA. This was the summer of 2003 — July to be exact. That summer, the Western United States experienced a heat wave like the one that the East Coast has currently been suffering under. The temperatures were hitting record highs for that early in the summer: 99F in Spokane, WA; well over 100F in Wyoming; 14 days of record setting temps in Pueblo, CO, topping out at 109; even the normally mild Olympia was hovering at 100 degrees.
Mr. Gren and I moved out of our duplex at the end of June and spent three weeks traveling to see family before we made our trans-Atlantic move. The first problem was that our ’87 Camry had no air conditioning. The drive from Olympia to Spokane (about five hours) was unpleasant, but still tolerable. We roasted in Spokane for a week before continuing the journey to CO. I have never known misery like that two-day drive. Even being pregnant through the summer three times cannot compare to the utter wretchedness we felt. We had two options to cool ourselves: The first was our pseudo-AC. We had bought two small, battery-powered fans that we set up on the dash board of the car. Mostly they just blew hot air in our faces, but we each had a squirt bottle of water that, if sprayed into the fan, gave momentary relief lasting about 2.5 seconds. The second option was to roll down the windows. On the freeway. Going 75 mph. This obviously increased the flow of hot air (but at least it was moving air!), and greatly increased the road noise to the point where Mr. Gren and I couldn’t even hear ourselves, much less each other, resulting in two nearly wordless, sweltering, tormented days. Made even worse by the chocolate milkshake that spilled in the front seat because an incompetent McDonald’s employee couldn’t find a lid to fit. It was a ghastly stench.
We reached Pueblo with no end in sight to the punishing heat. Fortunately, my mom’s steam vac got out the worst of the milkshake accident. When we left there, my parents sent us off with a cooler stuffed with two sopping wet t-shirts. The relief they provided was amazing! Until the suffocating heat in the car forced us to roll down the windows once again. “Surely,” we thought, “we’ll be able to cool off a little once we get back to Washington.” Instead, our friends greeted us with exclamations of, “It has been so hot here, it’s crazy!” Hardly what we wanted to hear. But we only had one full day in Olympia before flying to Paris and once again we told ourselves, “Paris has mild weather; we’ll cool off there.”
You see where this is going, don’t you? Paris registered 93F the day we arrived in the middle of July. In a city built largely of concrete and asphalt — not to mention devoid of air conditioning — the buildings were literal ovens, retaining and even increasing the heat within. You probably remember hearing of the tragic number of deaths caused by the high temperatures in France that summer. It was a horrific summer.
The first couple of weeks after Mr. Gren and I arrived, we were not yet registered to drive the car given to us to use, nor did we have a way to purchase bus tickets at that time as all of the tabacs were closing down for les vacances. But, we needed to stock our cupboards. On our first bleary day, I had seen a blue arrow sign not far from the apartment with the name of a grocery store on it — LeClerc. I told Mr. Gren about it and we set out walking. We found the sign and followed the direction it pointed. We were a little surprised after walking another ten minutes to find another sign pointing us on. And a few minutes later, another. Where was this store?! We ended up walking about an hour, dragging ourselves up hills with the blistering sun beating down on us and the heat radiating back up from the pavement. Finally, we saw the store. It looked big; it looked promising; it looked like the kind of place that might have air conditioning.
Hallelujah, it did! We stumbled through the doors and saw a sign pointing to a cafe upstairs. Mr. Gren declared, “I don’t care how expensive it is, we’re going up there to sit for awhile.” He got no complaints from me. Disheveled and dripping in sweat, we slumped into a couple of chairs and ordered the best Cokes we had ever had in our lives. Eventually, we regained enough strength to go do our shopping. We couldn’t get too carried away, however, because we still had to lug those groceries home on another hour-long walk.
Living in a house without air conditioning in 90 degree weather is bad enough. Living in a 4th floor apartment without air conditioning brings an entirely new meaning to “les misérables.” The nights never cooled off below 75 outside and the air was dead and still, so the buildings never got cool enough to be comfortable. We flung open the three sets of French windows in our living room and dragged a mattress right up to the iron grate, hoping to catch even just a wisp of a breeze. For 29 more days, Paris suffered, and we along with it. During that time, the temperature went down to 77F for a couple of days, but then spiked up to 98, 100, 104, for eleven days. Mr. Gren and I had come with just one week’s worth of clothes each (the rest of our belongings we had shipped in June, but they still hadn’t arrived) and we were always soaked in sweat.
I will always remember the night that the temperature finally dropped, that we weren’t being swallowed in an overwhelming heat: In the summer, Paris shows classic movies at a variety of outdoor locations. It’s free to attend and people often pack a picnic to enjoy before the show starts. On 15 August, “An American in Paris” was scheduled to show at Trocadero, the plaza that provides such a great view of the Eiffel Tower. A group from our church was planning to go and Mr. Gren and I jumped at the chance to go, too. We enjoyed the company of our new friends, ate a simple but tasty meal, and settled in to watch Gene Kelly dance and sing as night fell around us.
About halfway through the film, the crowd murmured with excitement. A breeze was blowing through! We hadn’t felt the slightest courant d’air in weeks, so this was a truly momentous occasion. As the night went on, we could feel the heat dissipate, that welcome wind carrying it away. The relief, oh, the relief was immense. Late that night, well after we were in bed, it even rained.
It was our first best day in France.
Five years ago this week we returned to the States after three years in Paris. Three wonderful, infuriating, amazing, heart-wrenching years. And not a day goes by that we don’t miss it! This is not an exhaustive list, by an means, but, just for fun, here is a little album of things that we miss about living in France (all pictures are mine).
There are lots of other things we miss that I don’t have photos of (but now that I’m looking, I wonder, Why not?!): good baguette, cheese, wine for 3€ a bottle, of course the markets, being able to walk anywhere we needed to go, plenty of interesting things to do or look at for free, wonderful little restaurants, fresh crêpes just to name a few more. We’re always scheming ways to get back. One of these days, we’ll make it, and then I will take pictures of all the things I missed the last time. 🙂
When I did my study abroad in Grenoble, I chose to live with a host family rather than in the dorms. I was placed with an older lady named Hélène who lived in centre ville. We got along quite well and I loved being smack in the middle of the city. Another plus was being able to walk out the door of her 400 year old apartment building and right onto the tram which took me straight to the university. This was a wonderful bonus not only for its convenience but also because Hansel & Gretel are better with directions than I am. Not having to switch lines or even remember which stop to get off at (the university was the end of the line) saved me from inevitable backtracking and tardiness. I had never taken any form of public transportation before and the tram was a nice introduction: clean, fast, simple.
I participated in the CUEF program (Centre universitaire d’études françaises) at the Université Stendhal. All of the international students were placed in a grammar class according to their proficiency level in French. The grammar classes had from 15-20 students and met every morning; in the afternoon we had elective classes, divided into merely Upper Level French and Lower Level French. Those classes were much larger, taking place in auditoriums that seated a couple hundred students. Because of the small size of the grammar classes, we got to know the other students there fairly well. I became friends with a Korean girl named Kyung Jin. Just a few months before, I had taken some Korean classes at a Korean church in my town. I used the little bit of Korean that I had learned to break the ice early on with Kyung Jin and it was well worth it.
Kyung Jin invited me to lunch at her apartment one weekend, along with a Danish and a Norwegian girl from our class. I was excited to do something social outside of school. Trepidation began to set in, however, when I realized she lived far off my trusty tram route. I was going to have to expand my public transportation horizons. I was going to have to take the bus. Kyung Jin gave me the bus number and I picked up a route schedule on my way home from school. I studied it for quite awhile that evening until I was
sure confident not completely terrified about venturing off my beaten path.
The next morning, I made it to the bus stop and onto the bus without incident. It was going to be a ride of about twenty minutes, so I settled in and stared out the window at this area of Grenoble that I had never seen. About halfway to Kyung Jin’s place, the bus pulled into a designated bus turn-out. People began filing off. It seemed like a lot of people. But I noticed that most of them seemed to be junior highers, so I just figured that there must be a school nearby (French schoolchildren all ride the public buses; there are rarely buses reserved just for shuttling kids to and from school. Something a lot of American communities could take into consideration…). But wow, it sure did seem quiet after that. I sat patiently in my seat in the middle of the bus, waiting to continue my journey. Huh. The driver turned off the engine. Strange. I was beginning to feel a little nervous as I watched the driver in the mirror at the front of the bus. He lit a cigarette; he turned slightly in his seat and put his feet up on the dashboard; and then he unwrapped a sandwich. The dimmer switch on my brain slowly brightened to a full glow and I realized, “He’s on break!”
Embarrassed and horrified, I gathered my things and hurried towards the front of the bus. The driver, thinking himself alone, nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun around and slammed his feet back to the floor, yelling, “Que faîtes-vous?! Vous ne savez pas?! — What are you doing?! Don’t you know?!” “Je sais maintenant! — I know now!” I called back as I sprung out of the bus and hurried across the street to where the rest of my fellow passengers were waiting for the bus that would complete the route. I can only imagine what was going through their minds as they saw me exit the bus a full five minutes after them. Secret tryst with the bus driver or just an ignorant foreigner?
I did eventually make it to Kyung Jin’s apartment (not before I arrived in the general vicinity, couldn’t find it and had to call her from a beer-soaked payphone) and we all had a wonderful afternoon together. I learned interesting things like Korean chopsticks are shorter than Chinese chopsticks, Danes and Norwegians can understand each other speaking their own languages although they prefer to just use English.
And, if everyone gets off the bus, even if you don’t know why, you should, too.