Notes from a Christmas abroad in enchanting Paris

First, introductions:

In the driver's seat: Frank Ittner ("Dad"): 55. Has brought a portion of his extensive baseball cap collection, which acts as both a) immediate identification of the entire group as American, b) covering for a growing bald spot.

Riding shotgun: Maura A. McKenna, esq. ("Mom," "M.A.M."): 53. Every waiter's worst nightmare.

In the backseat:

-Emily: 25. Voice-major diaphragm, by turns loveable and insufferable.

-Becky: 17. Recently voted "friendliest" by her senior class.

-Our hero: the group's translator and volunteer softener of non-Frenchisms (see "ball cap," above; "demanding mother", above; "loudness," above; "smiling," above.)

Tuesday, December 27

10 AM – rental car (black Peugeot) arrives in front of apartment building, Paris' 6th arrondissement, packed for a week touring Alsace and Burgundy. Backseat dauntingly French-sized (read: TOO SMALL).  Eeny-meeny-miney (ever unbiased) resurrected to decide who sits in the middle, feet on the hump.

Pass 5 hour ride: embarrassing stories, dozing, inserting dad's first name into lyrics of popular songs (ex: "I see you drivin round town with the girl I love, and I'm like, FRANK YOUUUUU" ).

5 PM – arrive at Benedictine convent - learn this is where we are staying. Confusion from three younger family members ("a convent with nuns?"), vague intimations about "unconventional cultural experiences" from older two.

Welcoming nun straight out of Madeline (the habit, the broad matronly chest…).

Hold our breath, but: surprising luxury, for a convent. May have better water pressure than Parisian apartment.

Wednesday, December 28

9 AM – Set out on Route du Vin (Alsacian wine road). Hansel and Gretel gingerbread houses. Real gingerbread, and mulled wine, at first Christmas market, Obernai. Crèche of what looks to be store mannequins in capes, a (female) baby doll, a ragtag team of farm animals. Donkey lets out a 10-second scream (of boredom? Annoyance? Elation at its proximity to the Christ child?), tries to eat woman's scarf. Children delighted.

11 AM - Putter around pottery shop (Dad stays in car). Proprieter (early 50s, male) wearing the same sweater as me. Embarrassing. Buy café au lait bowl with chip that has been turned into a bubble coming out of a fish's mouth. Sweater-man gives me 3 euro off "pour l'imperfection" (and for my fashion taste?). Tell him the imperfection is why I picked it – half smiles, searches my face.

11:30 - resume wine road. Mom reads us descriptions of upcoming towns from the writings of her most trusted travel companion, Mr. Fodor (who uses words like "charming" and "local" that get stuck in my head like a bad Katy Perry song…any Katy Perry Song)

PM - Wine tastings and Christmas markets continue. Family progresses from heady to tipsy to embarrassingly giggly.  Lots of spice cake, foie gras, "artisanal" bonbons. Sisters remark that the bald spot would make a good lollipop, if wrapped in cotton candy (see tipsiness, above).

Sign: "Vins, Jean Cobles & Fils." Children's heads poke out as we cross into what proves to be a garage: this is a family joint. Strikingly German-looking man greets us – generous with the tastings. Tells us about the cellar (1600s!), his family (the two heads we saw before), the bombs of La Grande Guerre that destroyed some neighboring towns. Does he think of himself as German or French? Smile: "I am Alsatien." Calls his wife, shows us shells he found in his vineyard (Alsace is landlocked). "La terre est vielle:" The earth is old.

8 PM - Move to next town for dinner. May be the most picturesque of the day – even the postcards in the giftshops look dull. Feel somehow vindicated, laugh smugly at postcard rack (catch myself – when did I become anti-postcard?). Buy the most centered one I can find, then stuff it in my bag.

Thursday, December 29

10 AM and still bleary. Destination: Ronchamps, Le Corbusier's chapel.

11:30 AM. 5 coffee addicts on edge. Stop at gas station: strike out. Becky (desperately): "There's. nothing. here. I hate here." Landscape increasingly resembling Fitzgerald's Valley of Ashes.