La Dolce Vita - with SNAKES?

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Yesterday we had a rare day to ourselves at the villa. We spent the day letting the kids have a swim.  It was blissful. Bambina swam for the first time without arm floats and she was so proud.  We came home already a bit on edge, aware that school was starting the next day.  As I was unpacking the car I heard Petite scream Snake! Snake!"  Since she has taken to joking around lately, I assumed this was another attempt at comedy.  But when she came running over to me, scared as hell, I realized she wasn't kidding.  I ran over to the house and Hubbie confirmed that he had seen the end of a snake's black tail wiggling into the frame of our front door.  I stood there in shock.  First mice, then cats, now snakes?   I can handle bears in the wilderness, coyotes, wolves, wild boar, fox.   Large animals in the outdoors don't bother me.  Snakes IN MY HOUSE scare the hell out of me.  My first thought was that it had squirmed under the front door into the house.  I wanted to scream in terror but I had to keep calm for Petite's sake. She was hysterical with fear, "I'm not going in the house! Never!"  Bambina seemed nonplussed, dancing around the courtyard, singing to her kittens, "Hey kitties! There's a snakity-snake-snake-snakity-snake snake!"  I felt like throwing up or running away.  I briefly contemplated packing the kids into the car and going to a hotel.  Which I probably would have done if I had been alone with just one baby but I realized that I couldn't realistically hole up in a tiny hotel room with two kids.  I mean, when would I come back to the house? How could I be assured that it was gone?"  My next thought was to call someone. But whom? We are in the countryside. In Italy. Snakes are a matter of course.  

I grabbed a mop and tentatively opened the front door, wielding the stick as a weapon.  I think I expected to see it curled up in the corner, but I didn't see a thing.  Hubbie insisted it was hiding in the door jam.  Petite hopped up and down outside yelling, "I'm sleeping in the car! I"m never going in the house!"  Bambina was still singing to her kittens.  Hubbie had gone in the office door and was busying himself at his desk.  Hello? What am I supposed to do about this snake? Um.....can't just leave it!  Mice freak me out but I realize there are traps.  What to do about snakes? I quickly posted on facebook "what to do about snake in doorjamb?" My brother said not to worry because the snake will eat the mice.  Another friend suggested that I google poisonous snakes.  My mother said to get a rake and try to retrieve it.  Seriously, whom to call for advice?  Snakes outside I could avoid.   But what if it was in the house? I remembered horror stories of snakes coming up through toilets, having wormed their way into plumbing.  

Bambina pirouetted past me and leaped upstairs, clearly unfazed as she went right through the snake door, "I'm going upstairs! No snakes there!" she danced her way up.  I still stood, wielding the mop, wondering what to do now.  Hubbie came through the office, "We need to make dinner and move along. Tomorrow is a school day!"

OK, it's not like I am trying to DAWDLE here, but may I remind you, that a SNAKE has wedged itself inside our door and WHAT exactly am I supposed to do about it?  My main fear was that it would get inside.

Eventually I coaxed Petite to climb inside via the living room window (bypassing the snake door).  I duck taped the space under the front door, turned on a spot light and, at our friend's suggestion, placed the CD player next to the front door, hoping to scare it away by blasting Sarah McLachlan.  Bambina came down and remarked, "Oh, is that music for the snake?"  Hubbie was now fully obsessed with dinner preparations and insisted everyone sit at the table, snake or no snake.  I grabbed a bottle of wine.  Hubbie asked, "Would you prefer white or red tonight?"  "Anything with alcohol!" I replied.  Note to self:  ask mother in law to bring valium.  Bambina happily sat down and wolfed down two plates of spaghetti.  Petite, thankfully, had shifted from snake anxiety to school anxiety (which I felt better prepared to handle).   After two hours of calming and cuddling (internally keeping myself from having my own panic attack as I tried not to focus on the uninvited guest in the doorframe)  I got both girls to sleep.  I made sure the downstairs lights were on, turned the radio up and eventually fell asleep, hoping that the snake showed himself out.

Banking in France

We have hired my friend’s American babysitter to spend some time with the kiddos so we can get out. It is really hard to get the kids out, since they prefer playing “at home” to schlepping around outside.  With our time alone yesterday what so you think we did? Most folks visiting Paris would go to the Louvre or the Notre Dame or take a boat ride on the Seine.

We went to the bank.

We still have our French bank account, since Clay often works for French publishers. You can't get an apartment in France without a bank account and usually you can't get a bank account without a residential address in France.

One of those choice French conundrums.

So even though we pay an annual fee, we don't want to close our account.  However, changing the address on our account is a major deal that requires lots of paperwork and documents and meetings. Our ATM cards expired six months ago, and for the past ten years we have been required to pick the cards up at the bank.  So, we've been waiting for this trip to Paris to trek to our old bank and retrieve our ATM cards.

After waiting in line, the teller (who is very nice an that's another reason I want to stay with this particular branch) informs us they were sent to our old address.  The one we moved out of two years ago.  With the cards MIA, we need to give a new French address.  Which of course we don't have.  We could easily give a friends’ address, but we have to show proof of residency there.

Clay asks if our former bank contact is here Monsieur D.  Yes, he happens to be in his office right now.  So, we pop up (very unFrench - the French don't do pop ins.  This actually was a relief to me when we lived here because in Italy they are a matter of course and I feel I am constantly risking offending friends by not "popping in" every time we drive by. Also, when the kids were babies I dreaded the pop-in.   There was inevitably a knock on the door just as I was nursing a baby or had gotten one to sleep or had just secured myself a few Minutes of quiet.

Monsieur D. greeted us graciously and after an hour, we worked out the challenge of inputting our new contact info into the computer (and yes one should be able to easily do this remotely by login on but of course we have been unable to log on since our French mobile is no longer active. So basically it is impossible to edit our account without showing up in person - in Paris - and meeting with Monsieur D.

After many security codes and questions, birthdays, marriage dates and mothers maiden names our accounts were edited.  Monsieur explained that the USA has enforced a new law prohibiting French banks from advising American clients in any way. Some distortion of the privacy act I assume, but basically means that he wouldn't be able to help us with our account if we hadn’t stopped in for a chat.

Good lord!

Our account sorted, the conversation turned as it always does in Italy or France (or maybe just with Clay) to food.  Knowing that Madame D. is Vietnamese and adores cooking, Clay asked where Madame D. shops for her ingredients since he plans on filling the car before we head back to Italy.  This prompted an extensive three-way discussion with Madame D. on speakerphone with Monsieur D. and Clay, debating the spelling of Bahn Cun and the differences between Chinese and Vietnamese noodles.

I was getting worried about wrapping things up in time to take the metro back across town because I knew the sitter would have to leave for her real job (guiding tourists up the Eiffel Tower.)

Ingredient list in one hand and Monsieur D’s personal mobile number in the other, (only to be used for personal/ food related discussions not bank issues) we strolled out an hour and a half later.  We had thirty minutes to complete the rest of our errands: roast chicken and éclairs for the girls and baguette and fromage for Clay before hopping the metro home and racing back up our stinky stairwell (the sewage problem has not been rectified).

That's the difference between being a tourist and living somewhere.

 The metro without tantrums! What a difference!

 Ballet at the Palais Royale

 Clay's FAVORITE Udon restaurant. Papa/Petite date.  Petite actually ate the broth even though there were greens in it!

Ma petite Parisienne avec sa parapluie. 

 The famous store. Repetto, right next to our apt.  Bambina spent the week trying to talk me into buying her toe shoes.

 Scootering along the Seine.

 Canoeing at the Jardin D'Acclimation - one of the best parks ever.

 Bambina doing interpretative dance of the "New pjs and rain boots"

 Places des Vosges

 Walking along the Seine

Scootering - this purchase has SAVED me because now no one is complaining that they need to be carried!

Too pooped to pop

I'm exhausted. Kids asleep. 9:30 and sun just going down here in Piemonte. Gorgeous sky. Our Norwegian guest has prepared dinner and a mutual friend who is a local wine maker has just arrived. Everyone is so nice. A lovely group of people. but I am exhausted and so not up to making conversation in four languages! English, Italian, Norwegian and Ukranian - equally represented by two guests each. I can barely hold my own in ENglish these days, I feel so tired, brain dead and worn out by kids. Italian only for survival and I wouldn't attempt to survive in Norwegian (is it Norwegian or Norsk?) or Ukranian!