Rocks/Stinks: London Edition

I'm a total Anglo-phile.  I love London.  I love the history and the heritage.  I love the accents.  I love the pomp and the Queen and especially the cute little way that Britain can't quite believe that they're not in charge of the whole world anymore.  If I could afford it, I'd spend every summer in London, popping in and out of our little Airbnb flat, riding double decker buses, practicing using words like whilst and fortnight and copse (Go ahead.  Look it up like I had to when someone used it to give me directions), stopping every afternoon for tea, and pretending that I TOTALLY live this way all the time.

And while there are some things that Britain rocks harder than Mick Jagger at a free summer concert in Hyde Park, there are some things that dear Mother England just hasn't quite mastered.  This, my friends, is my Rocks/Stinks list.  London style.

Rocks: Window Boxes

Seriously.  You could sling one of the Queen's beloved Corgis in any direction and hit at least one stunningly beautiful window box.  I mean, these things are EPIC.  Some explode in color as they cascade down off the sill.  Some are simple, relying on symmetry and shades of green and white to create a visual effect.  Whatever the colors and arrangements, they are stop-you-in-your-tracks-and-make-you-not-even-care-that-you-look-like-a-tourist-with-your-camera-out gorgeous.  Or at least that's what they did to me.

 

 

Stinks:  Bathtub Heights

You read that right.  Bathtub heights.  I don't know what it is about flats and hotels in London, but every single one I have encountered has a bathtub that is too high to climb into comfortably.  It's like the tubs are sitting on a platform or something!  And it's not just that the sides are too high.  The floor of the tub isn't flush with the floor of the bathroom; it's higher by several inches.  So you are stepping over the sides but then kind of up.  I don't get it!  

And I imagine that the number of bathroom falls in this city is staggering.  I mean, my legs aren't short; I'm an average height.  But climbing into the tub in London always brings flashbacks of my younger self on the farm, hauling myself over a fence and into a pasture, except without the planks to put your feet on and the soft grassy landing.  Instead it's just me shimmying in my birthday suit over a solid wall of porcelain that would be a more appropriate height for someone in the NBA and then landing on the bathroom equivalent of an ice rink.  

And getting out is just as bad!  There's a huge drop from the tub to the floor as you try to repeat the process in reverse, only this time you're in the buff and dripping wet.  Quite a mental picture, isn't it? 

You can't really tell in this picture how the floor of the tub is a different height than the floor of the  bathroom, so you'll just have to trust me on this one.  The smile on Knox's face clearly indicates that he hasn't yet tried to keep his balance while dripping wet and straddling a porcelain fence.

Rocks:  High Fat Dairy Products

People, let me tell you about the wonders of double cream. This. Stuff. Is. Awesome.  It is spreadable like whipped butter, but it tastes like a delicious, fluffy, rich whipped cream.  

(Momentary aside here: Cool-Whip is not whipped cream.  There is no place for non-dairy whipped topping in my life.  In fact, it shouldn't even be a food.  So if you're trying to think of double cream as some sort of British cousin to Cool-Whip, well, I can't even start to explain to you how un-Cool-Whip-ish double cream is.  In fact, if you think Cool-Whip is food, just skip this part.). 

Double cream is actually 48-60% milk fat as opposed to American heavy whipping cream which is only 36% milk fat.  I know.  It's an obscene amount of fat.  But it's so. Very. Yummy.  And then there's table cream (18%, so not actually a terribly high fat dairy product).  And clotted cream (55%).  There are all these delicious high fat dairy products in London that don't even exist here!  What is up with that?!

Stinks:  The Way the Spellings of Proper Nouns Don't Relate in ANY Way to Their Pronunciations

The Brits have this thing with dropping syllables.  Actually, it's not just syllables.  Sometimes it's entire strings of letters.  Let me show you.  I'm going to give you some names, and I want you to pronounce them.  Like, just go ahead and say them out loud.  Then below, I'll show you how they're really pronounced.  Here we go.  No cheating!

Leicester

Cheltenham

Chiswick

Worcestershire

St. John

Gloucester

Warwick

Cockfosters

And, of course, Thames.

Now, here's how you really pronounce them.

/Les'-ter/

/Chelt'-num/

/Woo'-ster-shur/

/Sin'-jun/

/Gloss'-ter/

/War'-ick/

/Cock'-fost-ers/  Yeah, I know.  This one is pronounced just like it looks.  I just think it's funny.

/Tims/

But, lest we Americans think we're above pronunciation reproach, remember Brett Favre.  Just sayin'.

Rocks:  Fish and Chips

I don't know how they do it, but the Brits manage to take what could be considered a children's menu item and elevate it to something other-worldly.  I love the crunchy coating enveloping the delicate whitefish.  I love the never-greasy fries (known as chips, of course).  I love the squeeze of lemon and the tartar sauce.  And I even love the mushy peas.  I know, I know.  You've probably never heard of that part, but I assure you it's a thing.  It's basically green peas smushed up with some lemon juice and salt.  Simple and delicious.  And they don't give you a heaping serving.  It's more like a little edible wasabi-sized garnish. 

It may be basic pub fare, but fish and chips is still a yummy choice.

Enjoying fish and chips with one of my former students, Michael, who was in London at the same time.

Stinks:  Washcloths

Hand towels are not reasonable substitutes.  They just aren't.  Trust me.  If you're going to London, bring your own washcloths.  Actually, if you're going pretty much anywhere outside the US, bring your own washcloths.  This seems like such a simple little piece of fabric, but, evidently, it's pretty much an American thing to need a six-inch-square piece of terry cloth to wash your face with.

Rocks:  Roundabouts, And A Whole Country Full of People Who Know How to Drive in Them.

'Nuff said.

Stinks:  Doorknobs on Exterior Doors

I'm actually not even sure why the British have doorknobs on outside doors.  They certainly don't perform the same function that I'm used to here in the US.  I mean, they're these giant knobby-shaped things located in the middle of the door that don't even turn!  They're strictly for pushing and pulling, I guess. What's up with that?  It's like they're put there for looks, just to see how many Americans will try to turn them.  Maybe there's a hidden camera set up near each one so that groups of British people in pubs can have a pint and watch a live feed of some Yankee grabbing a doorknob, trying to turn it first one way and then the other, then letting go and staring at it curiously while glancing up and down the street to see if anyone noticed, then trying it again just in case they didn't quite try hard enough the first time, only to give up and give the door a little frustrated kick before walking away in disgust. I can just see them there in the pub, laughing and shouting, "Look! She's bloody well gonna try to turn it again!"

If you look at the front door to our flat, just above the brass mail slot, you'll see the doorknob.  Trust me when I tell you that it doesn't turn.  And whoever heard of putting a knob in the middle of a door, anyway?

Rocks:  Tea

Well, duh.  Stopping every afternoon for a cup of tea with a little nibble of something sweet is a marvelous habit.  And, unless you're at the Orangerie at Kensington Palace or The Ritz or something, it's really surprisingly unpretentious.  I highly recommend it, no matter on which side of the Atlantic you happen to be. 

Completely, unabashedly pretentious tea at The Ritz.  (Notice that the picture isn't mine...because I've never had tea at The Ritz.)

Somewhat-pretentious tea with Amanda and Elizabeth at the Orangerie at Kensington Palace in 2011.

Completely unpretentious afternoon tea at Kew Gardens, near the home of King George III.

That's it!  And in case you didn't notice, there are more Rocks than Stinks.  And I didn't even mention some of my other things that rock like charity shops, cute little towns, and British brands like Ted Baker and Cath Kidston that probably merit posts all of their own.  But I'll get to that as soon as I finish my tea. 

Some Things Are Just Hard to Talk About in Any Language

After twelve hours of travel, the Boyds and Byerses arrived in Rio de Janiero.  And so did all of our luggage!

Our family's eleventh Let's Start Talking mission project is underway!  We have safely arrived in Natal, Brazil where we will spend the next six weeks offering free English conversation practice using the book of Luke from the Bible as our text.  We arrived Tuesday afternoon in time to do some grocery shopping and unpacking before meeting with our first readers Wednesday afternoon.  

Josh, Kinley, Knox, and I make up half of our eight-person team with Josh's sister, Kelsey, and her family making up the rest.  The four adults will have up to fifteen readers each, and we'll meet with each of them for one-on-one English conversation practice.  Kinley will have seven or eight readers of her, and she'll spend the rest of her time helping with childcare since Knox, Finn, and Landry will need some supervision while the adults are with readers.  

And for the first time this year, Knox will get to have readers!  When Kinley was nine years old, we went to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, on a Let's Start Talking mission project.  She had her first readers that year, and since Knox is now nine, he gets to begin sharing Jesus with others this year.

In Malasia in 2010, Kinley met with her very first readers.

Knox met with his first reader, Lucia, yesterday.

I'm so proud of Knox and Kinley for wanting to share Jesus's love with others, and I'm grateful to the very patient Malaysians and Brazilians who have been willing to let my children practice on them.  Studying English with an American can be intimidating, and it takes extra humility to be willing to learn from a nine-year-old!

I;m excited to start sharing my faith as well, and yesterday I met with three readers.  One of them had been my reader in 2014 while the other two were men I hadn't met before.  As Let's Start Talking workers, we come to each mission site ready to have deep conversations with people we've never met before.  We know that our new friends will only share their true feelings and thoughts with us if we're willing to be open and honest as well.  We are prepared to talk about specific ways that we have seen Christ at work in our lives, but we're also ready to acknowledge personal doubts and struggles.  I've prepared to myself to talk about difficult times in my life like my parents' divorce, my miscarriage, and my daddy's death to illustrate the ways God had cared for me even then.  I've even prepared myself to have to talk about the incredibly uncomfortable topic of American politics and the 2016 election.  But I still wan't prepared for the conversations I had with two of my readers yesterday.

My first session of the day was with a returning reader who had already completed the Luke book and is now studying in the book of John.  We read a lesson together which tells about the woman that was caught in the act of adultery and dragged before Jesus.  Her accusers reminded Jesus that the law said this woman was to be stoned to death for her sins, and then they asked Jesus what should be done.  They were intentionally trying to trick him, but Jesus was wiser than they expected.  He famously replied, "Let him who is without sin cast the first stone."  Since no one on the planet is sinless, all of the accusers left.  Jesus showed mercy to the woman and forgave her sins.

At the end of the lesson, I asked my reader to rethink this story with a present-day setting.  I asked him who would be dragged before Jesus today if the story were re-imagined.  I don't know what I expected him to say - a lying politician?  A greedy billionaire?  An unscrupulous policeman?  But I certainly didn't expect him to say the mass murderer responsible for the recent shooting at an Orlando nightclub.

Wow.  As you can imagine, I was a little stunned.  The horror in Orlando occurred just before we left the US.  I was in complete it's-time-to-pack-for-six-weeks-and-prepare-our-house-to-be-unoccupied-for-the-summer mode, and so I hadn't watched the news a single time in more than a week.  Beyond reading a few posts on Facebook, I knew precious few details.  I only knew the basics of the terrible crime, but that was enough to know that the shooter was not the person I'd imagine receiving forgiveness from Jesus without even asking for it.  So it took me a moment to process what my reader was implying.  My reader was suggesting that our precious Savior would show mercy to this monster.  Whoa.  That gave me food for thought.

And that wasn't the only time yesterday that I was asked about Orlando.  As soon as I sat down with my second reader of the day, even before the typical pleasantries, he said, "First let me ask you this.  I think many Christians and churches in the US don't like gay people.  How do you feel about what happened in Orlando?"

I sat there knowing that I needed to respond quickly but not sure how to express my true feelings in the basic English that my new friend was sure to understand.  My feelings are so complex!  They're a mix of disbelief and helplessness and grief and shock and confusion and discouragement and paralysis and worry and embarrassment and so many other feelings that to try to reduce them to the basic English that my reader could understand seemed impossible!  So, after a brief pause, I simply said, "Sad.  Really, really sad."

I don't know what he expected me to say, but evidently, I had passed his test.  We continued with our session and even found common ground in our love of Madonna.  (He squealed with delight at all of my pictures from her concert in January!  Who says the Material Girl can't be a pathway to the love and mercy of Jesus??!!)

All of my training, years of experience with Let's Start Talking, and preparedness didn't prepare me for talking about Orlando.  Thankfully, God gave me the words to say to respond to my readers in a way that seemed reasonable, if simplistic, to them.  

And, I guess I should just be happy that at least they didn't ask me about the election.

A First-Timer's View of Sin City (Part 2: Do Your Homework Ahead)

Before heading off for five days of fun, I did a little research to try to get some sense of what Las Vegas would be like.  I talked to friends and colleagues, bought a guide book, and read a few blogs in an attempt to try to wrap my mind around what to expect and decide what to do and see.

Having never seen a Cirque du Soleil show before, I wasn't sure which of the eight shows that are available in Las Vegas would be the best.  So I did some searching and found a USA Today article from 2014 that was very helpful.  It listed summaries of all eight shows, ranked them, and even advised  first-time-Cirque-goers about which show to choose.  We took their advice and went to Mystere at Treasure Island.  There were some amazing performers, but this girl had a hard time staying awake during some parts.  Having to lean my head back against my comfy seat to see the trapeze artists coupled with a starting time of 9:30 pm didn't help.  9:30 PM??!!  Haven't these people heard of matinees?  We did get a buy-one-get-one-for-$15 discount deal about a month ahead of time from www.travelzoo.com , so at least I didn't pay full price to take a nap.  Don't judge.

For more tips, I also read this  not-very-pretty-but-very-informative post about 25 things women should know before visiting Vegas.  It gave some good tips, though many of them weren't just for women.  The best advice I received about what to pack, however, came from my colleague, Kelly, who told me I'd need comfortable shoes.  I didn't realize that walking from hotel to hotel exploring the different themes would be such a "thing," so I'm glad she warned me about footwear.  This post gave some good tips, too, though I DID still wear some sequins and DID NOT take any athletic shoes, in spite of their advice. (Puh-lease.  No sequins?  In Vegas?  Why have sequins if you don't wear them in Vegas?)

Fodor's is my go-to travel guide publisher, and their Las Vegas one didn't disappoint.  We bought it for a buck at the library book sale, and it didn't matter that it was from 2014 since little has changed since then.  It even had a whole chapter on gambling including a cheat sheet for blackjack.  Had I decided that $10 a hand was something I was willing to lose, I totally would have sat there at the blackjack table, unembarrassed, with my cheat sheet open.  Fodor's assured me that this was perfectly acceptable, and that, in fact, the dealer would even be willing to tell you what your best odds are as you play if you tell them you're a newbie.  Aren't they thoughtful?!

Another valuable tip came from my colleague, Holly, who had been to Las Vegas just a couple of weeks before our trip.  She encouraged me to get tickets to see Showstoppers at the Wynn.  And oh.  My.  Goodness.  Not only was it just my style (a string of awesome Broadway numbers with amazing dancers and fabulous costumes), but it was at one of the most beautifully decorated hotels in Vegas.  The chandeliers made of glass bubbles made me swoon, and the theater perfectly channeled the glamour of the Art Deco period.  That my in-laws sprung for 3rd row seats was the icing on the cake.  

Even though I had seen live stagings of several of the shows represented before (Chicago, A Chorus Line, Guys and Dolls), I hadn't seen them from the 3rd row!  I had serious leg envy, people.  I'm not gonna lie.  I mean, check out this chick in the picture below doing the splits while in a handstand.  that alone should motivate me to get my rear end to the gym.

And the clever staging of "Sit Down You're Rocking the Boat" from Guys and Dolls with vintage Vegas signs had me slack-jawed.  Loved it.

In spite of my best efforts at preparing myself for what to expect during my first trip to Las Vegas, nothing can really prepare you for the spectacle that is Sin City.  So read the blogs, pore over the travel guides, and poll your friends for their best tips.  But in the end, just go and see it for yourself.  And maybe write a comment or two here about your best advice!

Gina's Derby Don'ts: 20 Things NOT to Do When You Go to the KentuckyDerby

In honor of Derby Day today, I decided to turn a Facebook post I created while attending the 2014 Kentucky Derby into a blog post.  All of the Don'ts represent actual people I saw at the Derby that year, though I wasn't quick enough with my phone to snap a pic of every Don't.

Which leads me to this:  sorry for the crappy photo quality on some of these.  Glamour magazine clearly hires better photographers than I for their iconic "Glamour Dos and Don'ts" column each month.  That said, some of these photos are so bad that they're epic.

Enjoy.

Number 1:  Do not wear a felt hat to the Derby.  It's chilly, yes, but it's not December.  Straw or Sinamay are far more appropriate for Spring.

Number 2:  Don't wear black panties with your white linen dress, even if your hat is black and white striped.

Number 3:  Don't wear shoes that are going to fall apart on you (even if they are a luscious turquoise snakeskin that are the perfect height and match your dress exactly) UNLESS you happen to have your shoes fall apart right beside the AWESOME guy in charge of the whole venue who can lickety-split send his minions to get you some Super Glue and then help your husband fix said shoes. 

Number 4:  Don't wear a dress that is only 3 inches longer than your underwear.  It's the Derby not a NASCAR race, honey.

Number 5:  Don't wear athletic shoes with your dress.  Even the horses don't wear running shoes, and they have to speed around that track while you just sit there nursing your mint julep.  On second thought, this girl's probably drinking a beer.

Number 6:  Don't.  Just don't.

Number 7:  Don't get your hat embellished by the floral department at Michael's.  Fake feathers, fake roses, fake hibiscus, oh my!  Less is more, dear.  Less is more.

Number 7:  Don't carry your hat.  Either come prepared to rock that bad boy all day or don't wear one at all.

Number 8:  Don't dress as an alcoholic beverage, even if it is the official beverage of the Derby.

Number 9:  Don't walk around in your sock feet.  It's a HORSE track.  Like, with real horses.  And poop.  Ew.  Keep your shoes on.

Number 10:  Don't wear flip flops beyond your box seat.  I get it that your heels hurt your feet.  I get it that you came prepared with emergency flip flops.  But wear them only while wandering around the confined luxury of your Daddy's box.  And while you're at it, have another mint julep.  You'll forget about your aching feet in no time.

Number 11:  Don't wear the same hat as your BFF unless you're Stella Artois or Dodge Ram girls and you're getting paid to do it.  You look like you're in junior high.

Number 12:  Don't wear cowboy boots with your Derby dress.  While there are occasions where a dress paired with cowboy boots is a total Do, the Derby isn't it.

Number 13:  Don't wear sequins.  It's a horse race not a cocktail party.  (Too slow with my iPhone to get a pic of this one.  You'll just have to trust me.)

Number 14:  Don't store your phone in your bra.  This is not a bar.  And besides, you paid hundreds of dollars to be here.  The least you can do is invest in a little clutch purse.

Number 15:  Don't leave after the running of the Derby.  Again, you paid big bucks to be here.  Stay and watch the last two races.  It's going to be an hour's wait for taxis or the shuttle bus anyway.  You might as well take advantage of the cleared-out betting lines and hang around.

Number 16:  Don't wear a statement necklace to the Derby.  Your hat is your statement.  Go with simple pearls.

Okay.  My last three might be controversial, but, hey.  It's my blog.  Deal with it.

Number 17:  Do not wear Vineyard Vines to the Derby if you're a girl.  Don't get me wrong, I live V V and their little whale, but I saw five girls in the same V V dress and many other duplicates.  For guys, there's a lot of V V duplication, too, but it's not as big a deal to them.

Number 18:  Ditto for Lilly Pulitzer.

Number 19:  Don't wear wedges.  I love them, too, but I spent a lot of time people watching and the legs in pumps just looked better.  And, admittedly, less comfortable.  But still.  Pumps look prettier.

And Number 20 is just for the guys from my uber fashionable hubby, Josh:  Don't wear a business suit and power tie to the Derby.  Spring colors for your jacket?  Khaki linen pants?  Bright bow ties?  Even some Madras in moderation?  All acceptable.  But a gray suit and a conservative tie?  Come on.  Have a little pride.

There you go!  My 20 Derby Don'ts.  I'd love you to add your own in comments!  And before I sign off, I'd like to share one Derby Do.  Here it is.

If your Daddy ever calls you up and says, "Hey honey, how about you get us tickets for the Derby this year," DO.  Just do.

A First-Timer's View of Sin City (Part 1)

It may surprise you to know that though I have visited six continents, I had never been to Las Vegas until yesterday.  Josh attends a national conference each November, and this year's destination is none other than Sin City itself.  Since Las Vegas wasn't a trip we were likely to take without a reason, we decided to go together with my in-laws, leaving the kids behind with friends.

Though I'd heard that there was gambling everywhere, even in the airport, I was surprised to see slots at our gate the moment we got off the plane.  I was too concerned about meeting up with my in-laws at baggage claim to be tempted by the garish lights, so on we went, passing the welcome sign on our way.

Within minutes of arriving at our hotel, The Cosmopolitan, I met a celebrity!  Scott Hamilton (1984 Olympic Men's Figure Skating gold medalist) was in line behind me when we were checking in.  

He was exactly as nice as you'd think he'd be, and he was super patient when the camera on my phone didn't work.  (Twice.)

Since Josh has gold status with Marriott's reward program (and the Cosmopolitan is part of the Marriott system), we asked for a room upgrade when we checked in.  Though none of the rooms facing the Bellagio fountains were available, we did get a huge room on the 56th floor with a vertigo-inducing balcony.  But the coolest part to me is the artsy vibe - the room has a collection of art books and colored pencils in an art glass cup just in case I feel inspired by the surrounding glam.

Oh Cosmo.  We only just met and you know me so well.

After unpacking, we headed to the Rio for dinner and to see Penn and Teller's magic show.  We ate at Buzios, a seafood restaurant near the entrance to the Penn and Teller Theater.  (Josh and I shared the ceviche and the shellfish pan roast, both of which were fantastic.).   

Though my favorite illusion of the show was performed by Teller, it was Penn that we met after the show.  Both performers were outside meeting fans, but Penn was far more efficient at crowd control.  Even without a real line, he worked through the hoardes of people who wanted a photo with him with an efficiency that would make a DisneyWorld character's handler jealous. 

And I told him so.  I don't think anyone has ever said that to him before because he looked at me kind of funny before thanking me for what he finally assumed must have been a strange attempt at a compliment.  (It was.)

Back at The Cosmo, I decided to take advantage of the Jacuzzi tub in our room while Josh worked on his convention presentation.  I had brought a Lush bath bomb from home to use (who wants to leave a colored ring around their own tub when you could leave one around someone else's?), and I luxuriated in the scented water while trying to figure out the controls for the jets in the tub.  I pushed a couple of random buttons and finally got a satisfactory stream of bubbles.  Unfortunately, the jets were loud so I began to worry about bothering guests in neighboring rooms and ended up turning it off.

Once we were both ready to turn in, Josh starting turning off the many lamps and overhead lights in the room.  Strangely, the desk lamp wouldn't cooperate and refused to go off.  He tried, I tried, and we even tried the button by the door that was supposed to turn off everything.  

And still the desk light continued to glow.  Josh called the front desk where a girl who surely thought we were idiots told us to push the goodbye button.  When we assured her that we'd already tried that, she promised to send someone up.  A few minutes later, a maintenance guy knocked on the door and said with obvious incredulity, "Um, they said you can't turn off your desk light?"  Josh gestured to the offending illumination and moved out of the way to let the guy give it a try.  Of course, I sat across the room worrying that a simple push of a button by this guy would reveal us to be the idiots he thought we were, but I needn't have worried.  He pushed the buttons (with increasing frustration) and eventually decided new batteries were in order.  He changed the batteries on the control pad, and then turned the light off with one push.

To be sure it was fixed, he pushed the button again to turn it back on.  Nothing happened.  He tried again and again, and eventually said, "Well, the goal was to get it off, right?" Josh laughed and agreed that yes indeed, off was better than on.

The guy left and we settled into bed in the now completely dark room.  Suddenly, a horrible, thundering sound filled our ears.  We both jumped and desperately tried to turn on some lights to figure out from whence the room-rattling noise was emanating.  Lo and behold, one of those random Jacuzzi buttons I'd pressed earlier had decided to pull itself out of hibernation and work.

Josh, bless him, stumbled into the bathroom and managed to turn off the offending appliance so that we could finally get some sleep.  As I closed my eyes, I thought, "Oh, Cosmo!  I thought we really had something here - a connection, an understanding!  How could you do this to me?"

So, dear Cosmopolitan, take note.  Colored pencils and art books only get you so far. Get the kinks worked out because what happens in Vegas is going on my blog.

A Day in Paris, Boyd Style (or Sometimes Expectations Don't Match Reality)

Josh, Knox,and Kinley enjoy a croque monsieur (basically a French grilled cheese sandwich) with a lovely view of the Eiffel Tower.

If you're going to Disneyland Paris, you might as well spend a day in the City of Lights, too, right?  And the Boyd way of doing it is to cram in as much as you possibly can and then collapse in a heap at the end of the day (with maybe some whining and griping from the kids and plenty of Christmas-card-worthy photo ops in between).

• Ride on the Metro? Check
• Parisian street food snack of croque monsieur?  Check
• Eiffel Tower?  Check
• Carousel ride in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower?  Check

• Notre Dame?  Check
• Musee d'Orsay for some Impressionist art?  Check
• Crepes at a sidewalk cafe?  Check
• The Gardens Tuileries, enjoying the playground and views of the Louvre?  Check

• An evening with fabulously interesting Parisians and several cultured ex-pats who, while dining with us in a former art studio in the 14th Arrondissement, would find my family adorable and intelligent and witty and far more aware of what lies beyond America's borders than most people with similar upbringings and would be in awe of what fabulously well-behaved and mature children we have?  Check.  Well, not really.  That's just what I intended it to be.

My friend Christi (a French teacher at a local high school here in Indiana) told me about Jim Haynes and his weekly dinners.  Mr. Haynes, an American living in Paris, has been inviting 50-100 strangers into his home every Sunday night for decades, providing travelers and local Parisians alike with the opportunity to meet new people while sharing a meal in an environment that's less impersonal than a restaurant.  He has entertained the rich, the famous, and the normal, and his friends help him cook every week.  My entertaining is on a much smaller scale, so I was fascinated.

I read articles and blog posts about Mr. Haynes and his dinners and decided to make dinner at his home a priority.  I even talked about it so much that my sister, Amanda, and her daughter, Elizabeth, arranged to go during their Paris visit in 2011.  While there, Amanda bought me an autographed copy of Mr. Haynes's cookbook which I pored over like the fangirl I was.

The cover of Mr.Haynes's cookbook

By all reports, Mr. Haynes was a master at introducing his guests to each other, finding out their commonalities, and helping every guest find another with whom they'd instantly connect.  I envisioned a spry man of 65 or so who would flit from one conversation grouping to another, refilling drinks and making sure no one was left without a conversation partner, all while surrounded by the magic of a Parisian evening and accompanied by the delicious fare in his cookbook.

So this year, when we realized that our Paris time would indeed include a Sunday evening, I got online, made our reservation for four, and waited for an email from Jim himself confirming our invitation to dinner at his home.  When it came, it included detailed directions and the request for us to bring a recycled envelope containing 30 Euros per person (or more or less if we felt like it) to cover dinner costs.  Dinner was still three months away at that point, and I was already giddy with excitement!

After our long day doing Paris Boyd style, we headed to the 14th Arrondissement, carefully following the directions.  We arrived in the garden where people had already begun to gather in conversation groups, and we tried to figure out what to do next.  I was a little surprised that no one greeted us or stopped their conversation to direct us to the right place, but I decided Mr. Haynes was probably occupied inside for the moment and, eventually, Kinley and I found our way to the kitchen while Josh helped Knox find a place to sit outside.

The garden outside Jim Haynes's home was where we ate dinner.  These pictures are from his AirBNB site. where you can book a night in his downstairs bedroom.  Click here to book an overnight stay.

Mr. Haynes was seated on a stool at this table.  People were seated on the couch and standing in groups talking while someone was serving soup from the stove.  (AirBNB pic)

Perched there on his stool with his head down over a pile of papers, surrounded by shelves of books with risque titles and erotic art, was Jim Haynes.  His mustache was more grey than his website pictures had shown and he was rather more slumped than I had expected, but there was no doubt that this was the man, the one who had entertained the likes of Yoko Ono and Chloe Sevigny and was now entertaining my family.  I walked up and introduced myself.  "Hello, Mr. Haynes!  I'm Gina Boyd, this is my daughter, Kinley, and we're here with our family."  I smiled my best Southern-belle-turned-Midwestern-girl smile and waited for him to welcome me with a knowing grin and a hug followed by suggestions of people I should meet.

He didn't even look up from his papers.  Instead, he fumbled with a typed list of guests and stared at it so long looking for my name that I feared he had fallen asleep.  Finally, I pointed to my name on the list and chirped, "Here we are!"

"Four of you?" was his reply.

"Yes, sir.  We're so happy to be here!  And what should I do with this?" I asked, holding out the recycled envelope that I'd carefully saved from our hotel trash can and into which I'd placed our contribution of 75 Euros for the food.  Again, he didn't look up.  He took the envelope from my hand, opened it, removed the cash and stuck it in his pocket with a stack of other bills, and added my lovingly-salvaged envelope to a pile of similar ones (not all recycled ones, I noticed) in front of him.

"Soup is about to be served and drinks are in the garden.  Help yourself," he said as he gestured to the door, indicating that I should go back outside and help myself to some cheap boxed wine.  He still hadn't even looked at me.  I wove my way through the crowd that was blocking the exit, and no one even spoke to me.

Back in the garden, Josh and Knox were standing alone, so I decided to take matters into my own hands.  I introduced myself to a lovely group of American ladies who were in town for a writing class, and Josh and Knox eventually made their way over as well.  As the evening progressed, we had a tasty soup followed by a chicken dish and the most delicious lentils I've ever eaten (I was told they were French lentils which aren't available here).

Knox whispers to Josh in the garden.  Notice no one else is talking to them.

We talked to the writers (one of whom has her own blog and later wrote an insightful post about the evening), met a couple from Texas, and did our best to avoid an American man who called himself a "regular" at Jim's dinners and appeared to be trolling for his next one-night stand.  A Parisian woman who was also a regular told us of her new business catering to the unique needs of ex-pats and advised us to get dessert quickly since it often ran out.  Somehow these regulars gave off a disturbing vibe, as if they all knew something about the real nature of these dinners that the rest of us didn't.  Remembering the books and art on display near the kitchen, I was kind of starting to think that maybe the dinner was some sort of bait for all of us newbies, and that we had been lured into something we hadn't bargained for.

As we finished our tiramisu, one of the Americans expressed her shock at having been hit on by another guest.  She felt violated, and her admission led another girl to share that she had just had a similar experience.  A Turkish girl standing nearby agreed that she, too, had been hit on.  So while we had loved meeting our dinner companions, we quickly decided that it was time for us to head back to the relative wholesomeness of Disney.  We said our goodbyes, and followed the directions in reverse back to the Metro.  Mr. Haynes didn't even notice we were gone.

The view of the garden as we left

Now let me just say that my French teacher friend Christi took her children to one of these dinners and had a perfectly wonderful evening.  In fact, it was her children's favorite evening of an entire summer spent in France, so I hesitated for weeks to even write this post.  But when I mentioned our odd experience to my sister, Amanda, she wasn't surprised.  She had been hit on, too, during her evening at Mr. Haynes's home, but had brushed it off as no big deal.

So I guess the point is this.  Dinner with Jim Haynes is an interesting and memorable experience.  It is undoubtedly remarkable that he gathers so many strangers together for a meal each week, and he inspires me to try something similar myself to reach out to the many travelers, grad students, and undergrads who are away from home in West Lafayette.  But if you go, go into this with your eyes open and a companion at your side.  And certainly don't worry about bringing a recycled envelope because he won't even notice anything but the Euros inside.