Taste of independence

The first days of school were an interesting experience for our boys: they joined the summer school where everyone speaks French only. Actually, that was the whole idea that they would be totally immersed in French for 5–6 weeks. The absence of anybody to indulge them in English ought to speed up the learning process.

When I brought them home the first two days, they feigned not understanding what I was saying when speaking to them in French. I capitulated after about half an hour of exchanges during which I spoke in Voltaire's language and they in Shakespeare's, but I could tell they understood more than they were letting on, and this was after just two days. I heard the elder child singing the cacahuètes (peanut) song to himself in bed one night.

My boys reported to me on their interactions with some of the other children: they already found out which of the orientals could speak Chinese, and which could not. They also reported that they were involved in a dispute with a girl over a toy frog on their first day, and began showing some misapprehension of blacks. I had to remind them to share, and that 'good' and 'bad' were uncorrelated with a person's skin colour.

After their second day, they complained to me that some black child(ren) were behaving very aggressively. Of course, this is all alien to a child schooled in Hong Kong, where 95+% are ethnic Han; there may be one or two Indians in my children's school, but no blacks. Furthermore, most Hong Kong children are very well behaved; teachers survey them like hawks, and playground bullying is usually nipped in the bud. Boys, being boys, will have aggressive tendencies. Away from the rarefied Hong Kong atmosphere, I hope they will understand what it feels like to be on the receiving end of aggression at the tender age of 4 and 6, so as to learn to handle their own disputes better in the real world. To that end, I am glad that they have both been learning judo. I always remind them it is not something they should use as a first resort, but something they can use, in extremis.

Le Tambour

This bistrot, situated at 41 rue Montmartre, was introduced by my friend Maria, a music journalist. It's a regular haunt of hers as the bistro is popular with the musico types which her job demands her to talk to from time to time. It's a stone's throw from Les Halles, and the Sentier district which was once the centre of the Parisian rag trade.

Many restaurants in France are individual enterprises not belonging to chains; I particularly liked the inside the bistro, where there is an artistic decor including a collection of modified street furniture, and a recursive sculpture of its own bar in a display case. There were no musicians here that I was aware of, but it was lunchtime in mid week, so many of these types would be scarely out of bed, but there we go. Strangely, I never discovered it in the years I lived here, although I would certainly have gone past it. Paris is a bit like that – it's an agglomeration of villages and you often find such treasure through friends.

I am told that it takes on a different ambience at night. The restaurant has has been family owned for two generations (according to Maria), and has recently been sold because the owner had grown tired of the hard work running an establishment which is open 24-7. The new owner agreed not to change anything, to preserve its atmosphere. To that end, the entire staff have also been retained. Maria only found out it had been sold when she asked where the owner was. Anywhere else, the new owner will not resist asserting their ownership by making a few "improvements"; in Paris, this stands a better chance of remaining untouched.

The menu is pretty classic French bistro fare, and not expensive by Paris standards. All the perennial favourites are on it. There is, of course the Hamburger à cheval, which my wife took literally. In fact it's not horsemeat at all, but a minced steak with an egg (sunny side up, naturally) on top. I was very tempted by the croustillant de chevre (toasted goat's cheese), which looked the business. However, my carnivorous tendencies took over in the end, and I had the Magret de canard (duck fillet) for EUR14. For another EUR8, I opted for the Tarte Tatin – an apple pie cooked upside-down then flipped over so the pastry is no longer on top.

Summer school

Maternelle at rue des Trois Bornes, Paris 11e

An IPSOS survey cited in a magazine article I read indicated that half of French families would be staying home this summer, implying that half would still be going away despite the financial crisis. Knowing how étatist the French are, I was only slightly surprised to learn that the state sector provides summer school for children in école maternelle (kindergarten) and école primaire (primary school). A small number of regular education establishments in each arrondissement are kept open during the traditional holiday months of July and August to cater for those parents who wish for their children to be kept out of mischief. These schools, designated Centre de Loisirs (Centre for leisure), are kept open by rotation. There is a weekly timetable, with outings and visits to the local swimming pool, and day-trips to parks etc. Under the school's auspices, children as young as 6 can be enrolled on excursions to farms or seaside resorts which last for 5 days or more.

The week's planning at summer school

These institutions have to observe strict staff:student ratios. Children are put into small groups, and each staff member (called 'animateur') herds them off into separate activities. The distinction is not subtle, as 'teacher' is called enseignant or instituteur/~rice. This nomenclature underlines the fact that the school takes on a different role, that of 'leisure provider', as the name implies. Parents enrol their children on a per diem basis. The staff work there on a month basis – it is a handed over to a different team in August. The IPSOS survey cited implied that the numbers going on holiday were down this year, so the number of children staying put would certainly be higher than last year.

Fees are charged according to a sort of means-testing, and daily fees range from EUR1.20 to EUR40 per child. Luckily, we had paid some taxes in 2007, which entitled us to benefit from the educational facility for a reasonable outlay.

When we put the kids into a nearby Centre de Loisirs on Tuesday morning, we got an insight into the logistical issues in trying to manage the operations which depend on a random number of arrivals each day. The centre ostensibly has capacity for 288 children. The day we took our boys in, we learned that there were 88 children under her care in the nursery section that day, to 8 staff. While we were filling in the paperwork – it only needs to be done once for each child – the centre's coordinator was busy calling in her numbers for the day's staff provision and meals.

Like in many inner-city areas in the western world, there is a diverse ethnicity. The Centre coordinator cited that over half the children were of non-French ethnic origin. Apparently, 40% of the children in the adjacent district, Belleville, were of Chinese extraction, of whom many did not speak French when they first arrived. Of course, there are also many 'magrebains' (North Africans), 'blacks' (Negroes) and 'beurs' (Arabs).

Touchdown

Touched down on time at Roissy-Charles-de-Gaulle Airport, back in familiar territory. The first thing noticeable was how clear the sky was. Being used to the smog-ridden skies of South China, it was easy to forget that the sky is actually blue. Never mind the real pleasure to rediscover clean air, and how it was a comfortable 15/25°C.

Taking the Roissybus into the city centre, the second thing noticeable was how quiet it was. Of course, it's the end of July, and the Parisians are starting to leave for their summer holidays, if they haven't left already.

This is one place where the locals abandon the city, leaving the tourists to their own devices. Businesses, usually the family-owned variety, close down for the summer while the owners head for their holiday homes by the sea. Middle-class Parisians often have second homes in Brittany or Normandy - within 3 hours' drive of Paris, and start populating these second homes every weekend as soon as it starts getting hot. This is all possible because the social welfare state is a massive disincentive to work even without the Loi Aubry which gave the French the 35-hour week, and there is no more RTT (Fr:reduction du temps de travaille). Still, employees typically get 20+ days' annual leave a year, compared to the 11 or so days that us Honkies get.

As many Brits discovered before the crisis, property in France were affordable, and a house would cost no more than a bedsit in Bognor Regis. The ownership demographic shifted radically from the 1990s, to the extent that many locals started complaining about being squeezed out by the Brits, thanks also to Ryanair which opened up provincial airports like Rennes.

The holy sabbath is the other reason why the city seemed deserted, of course. Almost everything was closed when we arrived at noon, and getting a toothbrush was a minor logistical headache. There are the traditional Sunday markets, and certain supermarkets in town are allowed to open, to close promptly at noon. Although there is apparently a draft law to liberalise Sunday trading, it's not here to benefit us yet.

Since I was last here, the ticketing system for the RATP (the autonomous Parisian transport system) has changed somewhat. Gone is the fidgety monthly coupon which resides in a plastic sleeve, which you have to take out and put into the turnstile. They have now adopted the Navigo, an electronic pass a bit like our Octopus card system. It was being put in place when I left five years ago, based on the same monthly fee for unlimited travel within certain zones (like in London). I see all the locals using it now, although it hasn't reached anywhere near its potential as e-cash.

One of the typically Utopian projects which the city Paris loves is a system of bicycle renting called Vélib', funded by the taxpayer; many roads have been made narrow by the cycle lanes. The idea is that you can pick up a bike from one station and return it to another, only renting the bicycle for the time you are on the road between stations. It's priced to encourage short hops and is very popular because the first half hour's use is free. When people started putting their own locks on the cycles to "reserve" their bicycles, employees were mandated to cut the locks.

Lounging around

On our way to Paris, we transited in the beer capital of Europe. I was expecting an abundance of beer. I wasn't entirely disappointed, for I there was a bar which served German beer, and a shop which sold all manner of Münchner paraphenalia, including traditional German biersteinen.

A vending machine in the men's toilet sold the hope or fantasy of a mile high experience, or perhaps just a way to while away a few hours in the transit lounge.

"Travel Pussy – die künstliche vagina"

Then there was the "Private Shop" in the transit lounge, a "beauty shop" in the domestic depatures terminal owned by the same chain. Of course, these may or may not give an insight into the Germanic psyche, or they could be just a sign of my failing memory. I was in Munich back in 1996, and I am pretty certain these things would have attracted my attention back then.

Another curiosity I saw, Camel and Winston (R.J. Reynolds) had commissioned 'smoke lounges' at its transit lounge. I had never seen this before, probably because I have not been in Europe for a few years. This may be a sign of a supply side measures to boost the tobacco industry since the widespread banning of smoking. The concept fits in well with my libertarian principles. Although I despise cigarette smoke, there was little odour from the noxious fumes from these hermetically sealed chambers.

Scary typhoon

Tropical cyclones were much scarier when I was a child – feeling the strong winds battering and shaking windows, seeing the unsecurely fixed objects flying through the air in those days. Thanks to regulations and better building, these are almost a thing of the past, and I actually feel a lot safer.

Although Typhoon Molave threatened Hong Kong on 19 July, it wasn't the strong winds or possible physical damage which frightened me. The prospect of having to delay our holidays, on the other hand, was alarming. We had visitors in town in the form of the human swine flu. School has been out since 12 June because of it, and kids have been going wild with cabin fever, so our long anticipated European holiday was much needed on that front.

It was touch and go: Typhoon Molave set on collision course with Hong Kong. The Observatory predicted it would be on top of the city at 2 a.m. Our flight was scheduled for 23:40. We checked in in good time, and it was nail-biting until the moment LH731 took off. I'm glad to be escaping these 30°+ temperatures.