We've moved...

That's it. The end of another blog.

But what did you expect? We don't live on the fourth floor anymore. We don't live in the 15th arrondissement anymore (sniff). Crazy at is may sound, we don't live in Paris anymore. Yeap, we don't even live in France anymore. No more elegance, no more health care, no more politesse, no more Eiffel Tower, no more St. Joe's, no more croque madame, no more Monoprix, no more ENC Blomet, no more Louvre, no more Shawarmas in Noura after mass on Sunday, no more Bruno haircuts, no more Square Blomet, no more noodles on the rue St. Anne, no more Roi du Café, no more plays at la Cachette, no more Atelier du Cartier, no more Pichard, no more strolls through the hood, no more bonheur à ma porte, no more rue Lecourbe.

But before you panic and run off to join ISIS, try your luck on our new blog. It's only a quarter of an hour from the French border and the chocolate is grand!

Throw your life away here: The world outside our window

Mama and papa were here over 10 years;
I only lived in this paradise for 15 months...

If a tree falls...

The cherry tree by the pond fell. The one that gave us juicy black cherries for jelly, shade for picnics, April blossoms to admire.

We'll miss it a lot. It seems there are so many things to miss lately.

I think the cherry tree and the old rose bush might be up there having a great time together in the great arboretum in the sky.

Check out a few snaps of our beloved old tree here: George Washington isn't lying.

The 15th arrondissement of Paris

What is it about this place?

The 15th arrondissement of Paris has no major monuments, there are no hills from which to view Paris while you kiss, the few museums it houses are known only to a few lost Parisians, it's not in the guidebooks. The 15th is not gritty like the 10th, or romantic like the 18th. It's not glamorous like the 8th or snobby like the 16th. Intellectuals live across the border in the 6th and the few aristocrats who have held on to their money share the neighboring 7th with rich Americans and blue-suited ministers. There is nothing emblematic about the 15th.



I was born in the 15th. My brother and sister were born in the 15th (Gabriel and I were born in in Sainte Félicité, Inès in Necker a few steps up the rue Lecourbe). My older siblings walk every school

day morning to the École Normale Catholique Blomet while papa gives them hand hugs and reassures Inès that everything she needs is in her heavy school bag. After school we play in Square Blomet where we chase the same friends we have just seen in the classroom. On weekends we play in the Square Saint Lambert and endlessly travel on its manège.



We know all the shop owners who have watched us grow, call us by name, and give us lollypops. We have our bakeries, our fishmonger, our butchers, our bookstore, our newsstand, our honey store, our

fruit and vegetable stand, our gift shops, our pharmacy, our favorite pizza place, and our supermarket where papa spends hours talking to the Cuban security guard.

Clara, lives up the rue Lecourbe. Alix, Marine, Jojo, Fanch. Cyriac, Constance, Hadrien are a few short paces away. Gongo's heartthrob Appoline, with those transparent blue eyes...

So is papa crazy? Why would we ever want to leave the 15th? I know what's going to happen. We're going to do what all kids do, adjust. But we'll never adjust to papa telling us how great the 15th was and how much he misses it, endlessly. He'll miss it all, the ladies next door who equipped us with birthday presents before the party, and the two pudgy sales ladies at the cheese shop across the street, the taramasalata from Lecourbe Marée, the Greek guy who always waves hello through the window and sells great olives, meeting our friends on the street, running down the parking ramp screaming, the pharmacy that took care of mama and walked her home when she fainted, the wooden oven in Pichard, walking thirty paces to Pietro for a Parma, Calabrese, and Margarita with basil, l'Attelier du Cartier, Dojo, Badia and his genius, the

homesick Spanish guy in Bio C' Bon, skating on up avenue de Breteuil, seeing everyone you know at the Square Blomet, the merry-go-round in Square Saint Lambert, Monsieur Crevelière the erudite kiné, Chawarmas at Noura after mass, the passage secret, the occasional lunch with mama at the Roi du Café, the Cinema Chaplin on a rainy Sunday, huge entrecôtes
from the butcher up the street, Dr. Vacquier's lack of excitement, shoe guy, the Kermes at the ENC, the hardware store that has everything you need, the world under our balcony.

Suddenly, Switzerland seems so far away...

Bye bye rue Lecourbe. We love you.

Want a few snaps of the 15th, the ones no tourist has? Check a few out here: Leaving Lutetia is for losers.

There's no business...

The costumes, the scenery, the makeup, the props 

The audience that lifts you when you're down 

Wanna take in a little fine musical performance? Maybe a ballet or a piano recital? Paris has the place for you. It has the Opera Garnier, the Opera Bastille, and the Opera Comique. Paris also has the Salle Pleyel, the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées (on avenue Montaigne), and the Théâtre du Châtelet. But if you want to see the type of performance that makes papa's eyes really water, you have to go to the Maison des Œuvres at the St. Léon church parish in the 15th arrondissement...or the Bon Conseil in the 7th.

Papa says that nothing can equal the ballet at the Maison des Œuvres. But I know he has a soft spot for a particular ballerina. 

And if you thought Glen Gould or Arthur Rubenstein could make the ivories sing, that's because you haven't heard the little waltz at the Bon Conseil.

But tonight you're in luck. You don't have to go to the Palais Garnier, or to Pleyel, or to the Bon Conseil or even Paris. You can watch both right here, on your computer. That's what papa's doing as he sits alone in his little studio apartment in Pringins Switzerland, watching these fine performances...over and over and over and over again...

Ballet? 

or Piano? 

The choice is yours.

Golden days like these...

So we're moving to Switzerland.

Here I am, happy in my home city of Paris–the center of the universe–and papa says we gotta skip town. Now I know that these are the heady days of globalization but I've lived here my whole life. Inès and Gabriel too! Now we're off to some cow farm where the national pride means cuckoo clocks and yodelling contests on the front lawn at Neslé? I mean, you leave Patrick Roger for Milka?

It's been the kind of Spring that people think actually exist in Paris. So I don't know how papa can even think of leaving.

In the beginning of April we went out with Gongo's buddy Cyriac to the Jardin des Tuileries. It was sunny and warm and the park was packed. Papa and I took the bus home together so mama could stay with the big boys. It's days like these that I'm going to miss.

Inès and Gabriel also ran in the Cross. I guess it'll be the last one and I won't ever get a chance to race. Inès ran like a Jamaican. Gabriel was a real gentleman and stopped to wait for his friends. Competitiveness is for sad people anyway. I'll miss days like that too.

I'll miss having the Louvre in by back yard with all those Egyptians that Gongo's so crazy about and all. I'll  miss the Breton's under my balcony and the cheese shop across the street. I'll miss the papetrie and  Pietro's and Pichard and running into someone I know every time I walk out the door. I'll miss the occasional picnic with Dude and Coco and Alexis. I'll miss days like these.


Papa's in Switzerland right now missing us more than we can imagine. And I know he'll miss the golden days in Paris too.

Still, you can't ski down the Montagne Sainte-Geneviève...

So now you can check out pictures of our day out with Cyriac here: don't worry mama, they already burned down the palace.

Or see our Louvre Egyptian adventure here: Nefrewhaty?

Or our last chance for gold here: the stations of the cross.

Or just understand why papa found it so hard to leave, here: life is good.

The one and only one

Suddenly, I don't feel so much like Rodney Dangerfield anymore. I get more respect.



Suddenly, things make more sense. I look back and call on my experiences to help me in the moment. Suddenly, I'm taller, heavier, more muscular. Suddenly, I can walk...a few steps.

It's not easy getting older but it does have it's strong points. People say life goes by in an instant. I've been here a whole year, but I mean it when I say that it went by like eleven months.

Well, eleven months and a half...



...and three quarters...

Actually, I don't care what mama and papa say, this growing up thing takes a long time.


Check out my birthday bash at Ata's here: Is that papa wearing the lampshade? 

Poisson d'avril!

Who's an April fool?

So far, spring is no joke. Check it out: the long March, no mao food thanks

I'm sorry, but do all 5-year-olds have this eye for composition?

C'est la classe mes godasses!

I'm all for nature and natural stuff and whathaveyou. Mom has stuffed me full of strange organic purées all my life and now papa is even going a bit nature loco on us. But you gotta draw the line somewhere, and for me, that line is walking barefoot.

I'm no new age hippy looking to start a peace loving colony of urban bacteria on my tender little soles no siree!  So now that I'm thinking about exploring the world vertically, it was time to find some protection for my plantar aspects and maybe throw in a little support to boot (no pun intended).

So check out my new kicks. Just what a little Parisian biped like yours truly needs to take his first steps in the 15th arrondissement. And lookout, soon I'm gonna ask papa to accessorize these babies with some taps so I can dance like Fred Astaire did with Eleanor Powell. Now that's class!

Don't just take my word for it, see them for yourself. And you'll even get a peak at Inès' recent footwear acquisition too: Going places

Busy, busy, busy...

I never knew life could be so eventful. When I grow up I want to be a relaxed marmot...

What can I say? Not much, I don't know how to talk yet. But I do know, it's all going to be just fine.

How about some photos of Gongo's birthday way back in September? Can I drive yet?

Or Inès' birthday way back when? Seven years good luck

Want to check out our trip to Mouflains to see my godmother? Apples and pears

Our our end-year weekend in Buzancy? Is this much fun legal?

Or Christmas with that great pageant and those big wings? Away in a manger

Or of my brother and sister cutting up the slopes? Hot dog!