The Pacific, "dangerous beauty"

After church Sunday (where we were welcomed to show our 7-minute video, and thank the congregation that funded a project at the hospital a few years ago, and meet for the first time one of our faithful prayer and orphan student supporters) . . we headed to the beach. Half Moon Bay is a coastal town, and the beach has been preserved for public access throughout. So north and south off route 1 there are literally hundreds of beaches, each blending into the next, some with high cliffs or boulder-strewn strands, others with homes and yards descending into sand, others with jetties projecting out. Each small section has a name and a character. Saturday's kite-flying beach was one for winds, running, fishing, even spotted a seal . . but not for swimming because of the dangerous tides and sharp drop-off. So Sunday's outing was to a beach where the waves were good for bogey-boarding, surfing, and swimming. The water temperature and air temperature are both between 55 and 60. This is not the kind of beach where people sunbathe. You wear whole-body wet suits for the water, and sweatshirts and jeans for the shore. Thankfully Ruth collects second-hand wet suits and 5 of 6 of us were well outfitted (no one was quite prepared for a 6 foot 2 inch family member, so Luke had to resort to a bathing suit only. He's tough).

As soon as we unloaded the gear the kids were running out into the surf, like little (or big) seals themselves, jumping in the crashing foam, catching waves and body surfing into shore. These are powerful waves, and frigid water, and loud spray, churning, wild. I was the last in, and the very first wave knocked me right under, disoriented and startled. A good warning. This is not the Atlantic. We had some surf like this in the Indian ocean when we got out past the reef, but most of my ocean experience has been more tame. To avoid being pummeled I swam out through the breaking waves and bobbed in the swell, before they crested. I was with Julia and Caleb, then they rode some waves in, and I drifted a little further out and down. Then I wanted to swim in. But I couldn't. I kept paddling, and getting no where. My feet could not find the bottom anymore, so I was surging up and down with the incoming breakers, but never being carried any closer to shore. The wet suit felt constricting, heavy, awkward for swimming. I was afraid, but telling myself not to panic, I could see everyone on shore, setting up the volleyball net, playing in the surf. I called to Julia to ask Caleb to help me . . but she never heard me. I just kept treading water to keep my head up, but making no progress towards shore. The ocean's power made my efforts irrelevant.

Then I saw Scott coming out with one of the "boogie boards", which he had somehow managed to get a turn on from the kids. As he paddled out to catch a wave I called him, and he finally saw me, and realized I was too far out. He came on his board, and I was so relieved when I could hold onto the board and to him. Now we're fine, I thought, I could catch my breath, and wouldn't have to face being smashed in the waves alone. But the two of us kicked on that board for a minute, for five minutes, and again were unable to get closer to shore. We were in a rip tide, one of the powerful currents, undersea rivers that flow parallel to shore or out to sea. Scott is strong, and he was working full-steam, with me adding all I could. When we saw we weren't moving, we changed out angle, going up-shore a bit to see if we could get a different approach that would put us in the right currents. It took a long time. Later Sonja told us that they had noticed on shore how long we were out there and how little we were moving and Kevin had just been preparing to come out on the larger surf board to rescue us when we finally broke out of our stalemate and started to inch towards the breaking waves. Even when we could finally touch bottom, the current was so strong I would not have been able to stand without holding onto Scott. At last we were pushed into the cauldron of shore-smashing waves and came out.

We were both very tired, and very thankful. Sonja's friends showed up about then and told her this was NOT a safe beach, that the tides here were unpredictable and dangerous, that it was better to swim a little further north. I had thought I was just weak, or scared, or unused to the wet suit . . but in reality it was a dangerous situation. If Scott had not been coming out to surf with the board I don't know how long it would have been before I was able to attract attention for help. Everyone was a bit sobered. We decided to stick with beach volleyball the rest of the afternoon. Which was a lot of fun.

All Myhre vacations have to have that little edge of potential death to make them full. It's not usually me who strays out too close to the edge, though. I'm thankful for my rescue by my husband, and thankful it was not one of the kids who discovered the rip tide. Nature, like God, beautiful but not "safe".

more cultural observations

Some things about America remain constant, only I have forgotten them somewhat in 17 years.  Friendliness, for instance.  Africans are very friendly too, of course, but in Africa relationships like all of life are spiritually/physically/emotionally integrated.  A potential friend is a potential financial partner.  In America the openness seems to me (whose values were formed here) less complicated.  Yesterday a man fishing in the ocean while we flew kites at the beach came up to show us what he caught, and I found myself suspicious, forgetting that around here he was just being normal.  

Other things about America, however, have changed.  The penchant for safety and paranoia about liability, manifested in warnings on any and every thing, has escalated.  Cereal boxes warn you that the strawberries and milk pictured on the front are not included.  Ice cream bars warn you not to consume the paper wrapping or stick.  Really.  Again at the beach, a warning sign, that in case of an earthquake a tsunami could occur so one should move AWAY from the ocean towards higher ground.  As if no one would have otherwise known which direction to go.  There must be tens of thousands of these signs on the coast.  Last week I read about a woman suing google maps because she took a route that indicated crossing a road, and was hit by a car, and felt that google should have warned her.  I am not making this up.  

All of this strikes us more as we come from a place of few rules and the assumption that risk is part of life.  Of course it means that babies survive here, and life expectancy is double that in Africa.  So not all safety is bad, but there must be a balance somewhere between the two continents that is robust without being ridiculous.

The other trend I've noticed this week is of reality-TV. Perhaps because we're at Scott's parents where the TV can be seen from the kitchen where we gather.  There is an unending stream of professional videographers following people into every nook and cranny of the world, commenting and dramatizing everything about it, so that all of life becomes one great spectator extravaganza.  I have to admit it makes our pictures of life in Uganda feel like just one more titillating ten-minute escape into the plethora of electronically-accessible worlds out there.  Again, a positive, that the world is opened, that people have visual images of underwater sharks and distant arctic mountains and strenuous construction jobs.  But the fact is that everything feels less unique the more of it there is, a constant vying for attention means that experiences have to keep being more and more dramatic.

And lastly, a little cross-cultural story.  On the way to the airport, we got into the "high occupancy vehicle" lane on the airport road, a special lane on the side.  Our kids objected.  There were only 7 of us in the 7 passenger van, one per seat.  This is high occupancy they asked?  We could have squeezed in at least a half-dozen more!  

Half Moon Bay

-Just to keep life interesting, even though we're in the world of convenience and safety . . . when we went on line to check the baggage allowance yesterday for today's flight to CA . . . we found out our tickets had been cancelled.  So our trip to see Scott's family (parents, sister, brother-in-law and kids) was suddenly up in the air, or rather NOT in the air. Three cheers for our trusty travel agent Paul Cardell who spent half a day on the phone with Virgin America trying to sort it all out.  He never did find out the origin of the mystery cancellation, but he did get us onto the flight.  Or rather five of us.  There were only 5 seats, and he knew Caleb had flown alone before and thought Scott and I had to be in CA for a deadline sort of reason, so he booked Caleb on the evening flight.  But advised us to show up as a family of six and pray they would find a seat for Caleb.  Which they did.  I have to say Caleb took it all in stride and was quite prepared to wait twelve hours and travel alone. 

So here we are, another three time-zones west, on the California coast.  We left Virginia in a steamy cauldron of near-100-degree temperatures, and landed on this pacific strip of foggy coolness, nippy temps in the 50's and 60's.  The Myhres are gracious and welcoming, the kids all a bit older, the lifestyle one of outdoors, sports, healthy food, abundant fruits and vegetables in this agricultural area.  We biked a few miles up an ocean-side path with spectacular views, watched out niece in her Junior LIfesaving class (4 weeks, all day, surf boards and games and wet suits and beach and safety and swimming, a real California summer).  The boys are busy with baseball camp and hockey try-outs.  I think what strikes me is the wonder of organized, positive, educational, recreational fun things for kids to do in the summer, a week of tennis and then a week of something else.  And in between times, lots of friends on the street, a real neighborhood and community.  

Sunday we will give a small presentation at the Community United Methodist Church . . Judy in HMB I hope you are out there!

College Prep

Two days between two trips to see relatives . . time to prepare Luke for college.  Scott has already been working on the essentials like a checking account and debit card.  We're sifting through emails and letters with details about post office boxes (required) and laundry plans (optional, so he'll be putting coins in the machines) that accumulated at our power-of-attorney's address here in Virginia.  The course catalogue also arrived, a 600-+ page document, a bit overwhelming in itself (instead of the 10-page list of offerings at RVA).  Yesterday Luke, Julia, and I bravely set out to buy sheets and a blanket for his dorm room bed, which seemed like a rather concrete and accomplishable goal.  It gets cold in New Haven, so we were thinking of something pretty warm.  And having moved from Africa we did not find it practical to bring any of our 20-year-old sheets and towels.  We parked the car and swooshed through the automatic doors of Bed, Bath, and Beyond where a kind friend had given us a coupon worth 20% off for one item.  (Passing, by the entrance, an ingenious new camping chair that has it's own overhead sun canopy, I might add.)

This is a store that awes and overwhelms.  Bright lights, frigid air conditioning, clever appliances for every need you never even knew you had.  There is an entire wall of towels in every size and color and texture.  Rows and rows of pillow cases and sheet sets, floor to ceiling all-in-one packets that sell sheets and blankets together for a matched look.  I'm sure we looked pretty clueless because a personable attendant came to our rescue with a "get-ready-for-college" checklist.  We were incredulous.  Here we thought we were looking for a set of sheets, a towel, and a blanket . . but in fact there was a list of about a hundred items in all sorts of categories.  And on the sidebar, a list of "essentials" which included such things as a hot-air popcorn popper and a bathrobe and other items which Luke has survived his entire life without.  He was appropriately skeptical.  Then she came back with a computer-generated 5 pages of Yale-specific info.  I am not making this up.  It included mapquest driving directions from campus to the nearest branch of this store chain.  I'm not a very savvy or patient shopper, and Luke has about 1% of my interest and stamina.  So within a few minutes of wandering the aisles with these lists trying to picture life in a dorm we've never seen, we were both about to hyperventilate.  All the colorful things looked very girl-y, and all the masculine things were drearily dull.  The couple of neutral beautiful items we noted were terribly expensive.  Suddenly Luke pointed out a sale item high in a corner, and said, let's take it, an all-in-one package.  The name of the pattern was "Luka".  We hoped it was a divine sign.  Julia put the bulky package on her head to walk to the cash register, and suddenly our helpful attendant was back with a shopping cart.  Note to missionaries:  Americans don't carry shopping items on their heads.  

We checked out and headed home, feeling very pleased that we'd made some progress, and saved about 50% with the various discounts.  But as soon as we got back, Luke realized how peculiar this brown/aqua set would look with his red African masai blanket and his home-made bright kitengi quilt.  He was immediately awash with doubt, disturbed by spending money on these things and feeling that he'd sold out his African decor.  And then we discovered that Yale offered a good deal on simple sheet-and-blanket sets that would be delivered right to the dorm room, plain colors which would be enhanced by his things from home.  So today we ordered that set and returned the Bed-Bath-and Beyond set.  

So was it a total exercise in futility?  I don't think so.  It was an eye-opener experience.  College prep is big business.  This life-transition is being marketed, heavily.  I'm glad Luke has lived two years in a dorm, far from home, and knows just how little a person actually needs day to day.  I'm glad he's questioning the culture of consumerism, has the confidence to reject much of what he sees and hears.  And I'm glad he went back out with me today, and ALL his siblings (how many high school grads tolerate that) to buy two pairs of jeans, two shirts, and a few T-shirts and pairs of underwear.  Because not all purchasing is greed, and you can't go to a Northeastern University wearing only bathing-suit shorts and worn t-shirts year-round.  This was probably the first time in his life he chose new clothes at a store, rather than wearing whatever was sent to him by grandmothers or passed on from used clothes.  We managed to keep it quick and efficient in the limited shopping attention span, and survive the sibling audience to boot.  I'm glad for the helpful store clerks we've encountered, unexpected friendliness, which reminds me that this is what America is also known for, that gregarious openness.  I'm most especially glad for the generous friends who have sent him gifts, so that he can start this new phase of life with fresh sheets and new jeans, a cell phone (soon),  . . . . and maybe we'll even talk him into shoes.

Take me home, country roads

Since home is a rather ambiguous concept at this stage . . . I think we feel the comfort of being in almost Heaven, West Virginia, more deeply than ever.

I sit on a screened porch only a few hundred meters from the patch of woods and log cabin where my grandfather was born, deep in a hollow along the Buckhannon River known as Sago. Population in the dozens, except for a horrific week a few years ago when coal miners were trapped and killed. When I was a child my parents bought an old farmhouse on three acres of land adjacent to the family property (when you're 15th of 15 kids, you have to take some initiative). Slowly but surely they fixed it up, installed plumbing where there had been only an outhouse and a bucket lowered by rope into a well. Added bedrooms and porches, a modern kitchen, laundry, landscaping. So that the place now comfortably sleeps almost 20. This is where I spent most summer weeks and Fall and Spring weekends growing up, and is a piece of the earth I love. Even our kids feel more at ease, away from the hectic suburbia that Northern Virginia has become, in a place where a neighbor dropped by in her pick-up last night to bring us a bag of tomatoes she'd just picked from the garden, and no one hesitates to engage in conversation. Where people across the river called out to us as we floated by on kayaks, and identified themselves by their "clan" name.

No internet, and no cellphone coverage. Lots of games, hiking, swimming. Yesterday we walked up the railroad tracks a mile or two and found a great cluster of high rocks to jump from into the river, then swam and waded all the way back downstream to "Camp". Last night Luke and Caleb, armed with a guitar, a 22, a tarp, a masai blanket, and a box of matches, slept under the stars in a hilltop meadow, where deer graze. Today lots of napping, reading, kayaking. Shooting tin cans off the railroad track, or clay pigeons from a skeet thrower.

Very thankful for this almost-heaven home.

Progress, learning

In 3 working days plus a weekend we have survived:  4 dentist appointments, 6 eye exams. 2 trips to the DMV (but still no learner's permit for Luke), a dermatology check-up, setting up a bank account for Luke, looking into numerous vehicle options with a promising offer again from someone in the church, checking 13 books out of the library, purchasing two pairs of clearance-rack tennis shoes and about two dozen pairs of socks, cooking dinner for a family group (aunt, uncle, cousins) and a neighbor/friend group, being hosted out to dinner with two dear families from our church, adjusting our time clocks to America, umpteen loads of laundry and dishes and a working understanding of all the machines involved, rehabbing 4 bicycles (Scott's and mine from our residency days 30-plus years ago, and old ones of my mom and dad), effortlessly driving on the right-hand side of the road, clearing out three big bags of ancient clothes to make room in drawers to "move in" to my old room, getting one functional cell phone up and running, sending our first text messages back to our team in Uganda, and baking two pies.  But since we haven't seen a single patient, or been responsible for a meeting, or done any of our "normal" work, so it feels like we've done very little since arrival.

After the first three eye exams were all 100% good news, I thought, maybe we'll be like the Israelites whose clothes did not wear out in 40 years of the desert trek, and our bodies will show no signs of worse-for-wear in spite of years without proper exams.  But alas, after jaw-aching barnacle-scraping teeth cleaning and a few cavities (me still paying for my fluoride-free childhood, and Julia who brushes more than anyone in the family) , and a suspicious mole that ended up needing immediate biopsy (you notice things in bathrooms with mirrors and lights that just don't get attention in Uganda). . . I've settled in to realize that we aren't immune to aging and illness.  

I suppose we're making progress.  Learning that the germ-fighting wipes at the grocery store are for sterilizing the cart handles, with seems laughably obsessive coming from Africa to the land of cleanliness.  Learning the hard way (Jack) that you can't step behind the counter of the music store to look more closely at a guitar, there are spacial rules that should be internalized by the time you're that big (hostile clerk yelled and he retreated outside the store until we were ready to leave).  Learning that the $15-off coupon card really is a chance to get $15 off later, when you come back between Sep 12 and Oct 1, and spend more than X amount, and keep the initial receipt, THEN you'll save money . . because this place has a lot of flashy gimmicks and loopholes.  Learning that the 80% required score on the written driving test means AFTER you get 100% on the road-sign portion, if you miss 1 out of those 10 it's game over for 15 more days (has anyone EVER seen a solid yellow diamond sign with no symbols or writing??). 

But also learning that people can be incredibly gracious, smiling and welcoming, helpful and forgiving, even when we're late, and distracted, and forgetful.

Wishing to be less worried about US, and more aware of others, and hoping that will be part of the progress of learning to live.

Visiting Home

Another paradox, they seem to multiply when we're here at the fringes of two worlds.  Here we are at home, the house where I lived through the crucial years of age 11 to 18, where I stayed through every break in college and medical school, where my wedding dress is boxed in a closet and the wallpaper in my room is the pattern I chose in the 70's and still like.  This place is familiar and my mom has made every detail welcoming, from clean sheets on new mattresses to favorite breakfast cereals.  This is home.

And yet the sense of being a visitor is also very close to the surface. The 17 years in our home in Bundibugyo far outweigh in duration and intensity the years here.  And though we are absolutely welcome in my childhood home (and Scott's, next week), it is still a space that had its own order and purpose without us and will continue on when we leave, we are temporary residents, in a bizarre time-warp back to adolescence, dependent and hormonal and limited, thrown in with our own actual 4 adolescents in an equality of restlessness.  My poor mom, all six of us trying to figure out who we are, at once.

Home is where we should feel the relieved sigh of being off-guard, at ease, understood and understanding . . but that is not quite true in Bundi, and certainly not true in America.  

I think when we can remember that we are visitors, with visitor-politeness and visitor-awareness that we are not quite at home, that we have to make an effort, to study the pace and expectation of life, to decode, then we are probably a bit easier to live with.  Unfortunately we've barreled through the first five days with that paradoxical assumption t that we SHOULD get it, but the discomforting reality that we don't, so something must be wrong with us.

I remember the same thing happening on our other HMA, in 2000.  I did not want to feel judgmental or critical as we crossed back over the ocean . . and that prayer was answered a bit too well, as we instead felt overwhelmed by the complexity of a life we did not know how to enter.  Didn't think we'd repeat that a decade later, but here we are, confused and amazed that everyone else around us seems to handle this life so well.  We're in a church of real saints, people that offer us meals and rides, people that homeschool a half-dozen kids while living simply and bonding as families and maintaining order and discipline, people who know Scripture through and through, and are friendly and wholesome.  And who know more about us than we know about ourselves. It's a bit intimidating.

So we can only say, to everyone who has to put up with us in the awkwardness of in-between, sorry.  May God give grace to all who must bear with us as we exclaim over the inhumanity of the DMV, or bump up against rules we didn't know about.  The sermon this Sunday was from Genesis 40-ish, on Joseph, and the way he was faithful in the in-between time of prison.  Here we are in luxury, not prison, but it was still an encouragement to me to look at this 5-month interim as an important step in a long journey, to be present where God has put us right now, visiting home.  

culture shock

I'm afraid we have a case of it. 

The good news is that only 2 bags were misplaced between Amsterdam and Washington, and should come today.  And that my mom was helpfully accompanied to meet us at the airport by Nathan and Sarah, and since Nathan has been around to help us through a LOT in the last couple of years that felt very normal.  And that they stayed for dinner adding to the sense of a smooth world-crossover.  And that my mom got two more beds for growing kids, making it comfortable for all of us to fit in after 4 more years and MANY more inches.  And that there was still an old guitar Caleb can play under a bed.  And that this house is air-conditioned and bursting with food and very comfortable and familiar. 

Today, however, we've moved out of the safety of 118 Lake Drive and run smack up against America:  apparent abundance that is tricky to access.  In Africa you can buy a phone sim card for a couple of dollars even in remote villages.  Cell-phone communication is easy.  We have not previously ever had an American cell phone . . but we want to be able to communicate, so today we hit a bunch of stores to buy sim cards to put in our phones.  No deal.  Everything here is contracts, big business, lots of money, rules, and restrictions.  We were about to be resigned to that and just buy new phones and contract-plans when we double-checked the list of "over 100 countries" we can text on the ATT plan, and noticed only about 5 are in Africa, and do not include Uganda or Kenya.  Not helpful.  My computer won't send out email on my mom's network, so the ten or so emails I had written are stuck in the outbox.  We went to the Division of Motor Vehicles to register Luke for a learner's permit and between the long line of people and the layers of more rules (two proofs of identity, birthdate, Virginia residency, etc.) and the realization that he can't get a real license until he's over 19 (which is a year and a half from now) unless he takes a 36-hour education course . . all felt pretty discouraging.  Life is complicated here.  And we are novices.  It's going to take time, and patience.  Roads that used to be 2-lane country drives are now 6- or 8-lane divided super-highways.  One of the suspected Somali bomber masterminds was arrested trying to leave the USA and hailed from Fairfax County Virginia, very nearby.  We don't know how to live here anymore, and it has changed in ways that are almost unrecognizable. 

Classic culture shock:  "why do they do it this way" kind of thinking, and the discouragement that comes from no longer being competent adults ( with phones, car, internet, house, jobs, status) and instead entering a position of complete dependence (none of the above).  I know it's good for us.  But it's not fun.  And we haven't even BEEN grocery shopping yet, thanks to my mom's generosity . .  . if you haven't seen that scene in Hurt Locker, it's worth the price of the movie.

So you have to feel all that to appreciate the two highlights of the day:  driving to the Loudoun County Public Health Department Luke and I were at a stoplight, and the guy in the car next to us was gesticulating for us to roll down the window.  Oh no, I'm probably doing something completely wrong . . . we rolled down the window and he asked a question about directions.  A question I could answer!  He thought we lived here!  And we fooled him!  And second highlight, sitting in the public health department, I realized I HAVE NO AMERICAN MONEY AND NO CREDIT CARD.   I went through my purse and came up with Euros and Uganda shillings and Kenya shillings . . but nothing American.  Whoops.  Not smart.  But the chicken pox vaccine was FREE because it was required by school, and the two nurses running the clinic could not have been nicer about it.  Thankful.  Maybe if we meet enough people like this, we'll improve.  But right now the case of shock is quite serious. 

Paris-dox

Today we headed out to the Louvre, which as Luke said has to be one of the largest assemblies of human ingenuity under one roof in the world. From primitive carvings to Egyptian mummies and Greek chiseled gods, to jeweled trunks and medieval armor, to wall-sized paintings and tapestries, the span of civilization is collected within the sprawling cavernous halls of a former palace. What was once the booty of kings and the purview of princes is now displayed to the world. And I mean the world. Thankfully Julia and I discovered how to buy tickets electronically while searching for a bathroom near the metro stop when we arrived, thereby avoiding massive lines again. We did have to elbow through some throngs around the Mona Lisa and the Venus de Millo, but generally we kept moving. Caleb mastered the maps and laid out the plan of attack, and we saw a LOT. Not everything, by far. But plenty to satisfy four teenagers. You have to love the fact that we hit Paris while Luke was still 17, as many things (including museums) are free for kids under age 18.

The Louvre was lovely. But lunch was fantastique. While we were sitting on a malfunctioning metro this morning, a lady struck up conversation after noting our American accents. A missionary, from Maryland. And when Scott told her what we were really here for the food, she told us to take the Metro line 7 after the Louvre and get off at Place Monge and choose any cafe for fondue. And so we did. An angel? Pretty peculiar encounter, but we found ourselves nestled in a cozy bistro with interesting artwork and real French clientele, sizzling chunks of meat in oil and dipping bread in cheese over a leisurely meal. Abundance and freshness and atmosphere and tasty sauces. Memorable.

Last stop today, the Arc de Tiomphe, the monument built by Napoleon that commemorates French victory and soberly remembers the price paid. And has spectacular views.

Well, many missionaries might not blog about stopping in Paris. But we have been blessed to grasp this opportunity for culture and cuisine. I see this as the decompression chamber, the space between Africa and America where we leave one behind but do not quite encounter the other, where we equilibrate. And the truth is that while missionary life involves a lot of roaches and pus and humidity and rebels . . . it also occasionally offers an opportunity way beyond our technically-poverty-level incomes. Grateful for the paradox, or, in this case, Paris-dox.

The Long Way Back

Advice we received many years ago from a lecture on the needs of Third Culture Kids: always try to take a few days en route to spend as a family, in that suspended time between "field" and "home" when you are not immersed in ministry or pulled by donors and relatives and friends . . . For families with high mobility or massive transition, building those memories together goes a long way in providing solidarity. Our missionary travel agent put a three-day gap in our ticket connection in Amsterdam, and so here we are in Europe, between Africa and America. We landed Sunday evening in Amsterdam and were met by fellow-WHM-pilgrims Bob and Miriam whom God has given an unaccountable love for us, a graciousness in welcoming us into their home and encouraging us with Dutch pancakes and conversation and showers and sleep.

Next morning we followed Bob like ducklings on the metro to the main train station, and then took a 3 1/2 hour high-speed train to Paris, where we we had arranged over the internet to stay in a 7th (top) story apartment on a busy street. We look out of our windows and see the grey steep roof tops topped by rows of clay chimneys, iron grill-work balconies and geraniums, trees and buses. Everyone has a bed (if you count the couch) and we are loving the sense of "living" in the city, slipping into the quarters of a family who takes July and August vacations elsewhere. Monday evening we bravely set out with our 3-day metro passes and made it to the Eiffel Tower. There we bought tickets to take the stairs to the 1rst and 2nd platforms, calf-burning, panting climbs up the massive steel-girder structure that looks more impressive up close. Great views of the city, and a great way to orient ourselves. And to feel glad we didn't have to stand in the mile-long line for the elevators . . .

We came back via the Seine, boarding a water taxi to cruise through the heart of Paris, the evening breeze cooling us as we drifted by the Louvre, palaces, cathedrals, musicians, artists, hundreds and hundreds of people simply enjoying the setting sun. We were pretty tired and hungry . . and no wonder, though it was barely dusk, it was well after 9 pm. That's what happens when you fly due north 8 hours from the equator, the days suddenly become ridiculously long.

This morning Luke, Scott, and I were up before the rest, and like true Parisians took the net shopping bags from our apartment kitchen and explored the open-air market nearby. We returned laden with blueberries, strawberries, raspberries, cherries, even a few blackberries, crunchy baguettes, butter and jam, pastries, and coffee to make our own cappuccino. Ahhhhh. . . . a family breakfast to remember. A glimpse of heaven, which even in the Bible usually involves food . . .

Our goal for Tuesday was to see Notre Dame, which in July is nearly an all-day endeavor. We waited in the mid-day sun for almost two hours to gain entrance to climb the 400 stairs of the towers, for up-close views of chimeras and gargoyles, the massive bell, the spreading city. Then we wandered through the cathedral, built almost a thousand years ago, and at the time the largest and tallest place of Christian worship in the western world. The gothic grey stone, kingly statues, glowing glass, forest-like arches, majesty and solidity, echo a stately beauty that even thousands of tourists can not fully mar. Our wilt was restored by a 3-course lunch in an auberge off a small alley in the Rive Gauche district, and then I dragged the kids through one more hour of cultural literacy as we breezed through the Impressionism at the Musee d'Orsay, vivid Van Goghs and delicate Monets and sweeping Renoirs.

Paris: ancient, artsy, bustling, delicious, arrogant, tasteful, intellectual, romantic. Every siren evokes a Jason Bourne movie, and we could easily imagine Julia Childs in the morning market, so it is a bit surreal, like walking into the set of a movie or a great book. One more day, and then we resume our America-ward journey.