Menopause sucks

Can I just say how much fun Menopause ISN'T ?

What Ever Happened To Baby Jane? Menopause that's what..

I swear our neighbors must think I've developed Tourette's after today's effort. I was putting up new bookshelves in Lucie's room, where the walls are about a 100 years old, which means the render is as strong as cupcake icing and barely hanging on to the double brick walls.  Holes are hard to drill, often great chunks of wall fall out and if you do get a shelf to hold - it usually falls off within 24hrs.  Not a job to take on when you're experiencing Menopause symptoms 11,12,20, 22, 23 and 25. (see below).

So with the windows open I was busy drilling and very creatively effing and blinding enough to make a Hells Angel blush.

And as far as I know, most women going through menopause aren't killing themselves of DIY projects or charging around after an almost-five-year-old.  But I'm not complaining about my little angel and mostly she is, God knows we wanted her bad enough and tried everything to get her.

I just feel like having a good whinge about the spontaneous combustion, the pathological need to be horizontal at 2pm, the raging angries and mood swings that give me whiplash, let alone my poor husband.

Oh and I'm blaming my mumnesia and tangentitis on this as well. It's either menopause or dementia.

This is my personal Symptom Score Card, I think that depression should be the last listed because I'm not convinced that it is a symptom of menopause rather than an effect of the actual symptoms of menopause. If you know what I mean.
Anyway, there are more of them if you want to be further horrified; just go to click here for a full tour.

So yes it was my choice to have a child at a less than optimal stage of my fertility, but still it's hardly my fault I was an enormously effective bastard magnet most of my dating life.

Is wasn't my fault I couldn't take the contraceptive pill because it gave me migraines or that the effects of depo-provera didn't wear off for almost 18 months longer than they were supposed to. Doesn't everyone in those circumstances meeting Mr right a tad after their prime, end up wandering into an IVF clinic?

Oh while I'm thinking of it: Message to DR Bowman of Sydney IVF: MR "You-will-never-conceive-a-child, - your-eggs-are-rotten" (or other brutal words to that effect.)

"Dearest Dr B: (blowing the biggest raspberry) I did. Do stop being such a statistically obsessed ponce and try to be nicer to the poor women who come to see you".
I left sobbing that day and headed off the far more nurturing crowd at IVF Australia.

So reflecting back I'm blaming the IVF treatments for sucking up all my eggs and sending me into early menopause. You see menopause starts when your eggs are gone and contrary to popular belief, (of IVF doctors) myself and my GP believe it's a simple matter of arithmetic. If you hyper-stimulate your ovaries into producing tuck-loads more egg follicles per cycle than normal, and you hoover the little buggers up, like hungry hungry hippo; stands to reason you'll run out faster.
Bingo, before you can say What The Flock, your eggs are gone, your uterus is shutting shop and you're in for a seismic shift in your hormone cocktail that will literally leave you reeling.  And probably your nearest and dearest too. And people in traffic. And in shops, bus stops, dog parks, dry cleaners...you get the drift.

As it was IVF came close a couple of times, over five cycles. We had instant success on the first go only to have the little peanut bomb at 10 weeks. We came very close again on the third and fourth tries but it just didn't happen.
Looking back, what the hormone hyper-stimulation did to my sanity is comparable to being menopausal but minus the heart wrenching tragedy you feel and are so ill-equipped to deal with, when after so much build-up and emotional investment, nothing comes of it. Or worse it 'goes away'.

So if you're wondering how a reproductively challenged person such as myself concieved a healthy child with a severely diminished supply of rotten eggs then I'll tell you:

Several months after my last IVF failure, I found a wonderful woman and expert in natural fertility Lily Lui, who in four months got me knocked-up, (with no small contribution of my lovely husband of course) with a bunch of tiny needles, pills, berries and a load of smelly herbal stuff I still don't like to think about.

She also made me a tonic for perimenopause symptoms that rocked my socks off so I must go back and get some more before I start a traffic-light fist-fight during the next school-run.


So here I am my little journey has led me to this cranky place where I'm cross a lot of the time, tired all of the time, but still grateful everyday for my little miracle.

And as much as the debate rages on about the effects of IVF treatments on  early onset menopause... well if you're struggling to conceive and you were offered a chance of having a baby, even knowing you may enter menopause early would you opt out? Nah.

Who would?. Cranky or not, feeling fat and frumpy, stressed out, out-of-control, overwhelmed and sometimes even a bit depressed, I have no regrets.

I know this is just a stage that will pass. And what I got was worth it; after finally meeting Mr Right (not a bastard bone in his body) I have a gorgeous happy healthy little girl. Oh and of course the orangest, cuddliest and most well-behaved pooch too.

That's the trifecta right there.

D.I.Y UPDATE:

  
I'm a huge fan of IKEA especially for kid's rooms and  I've discovered the STÄLL shoe cabinets totally rock as toy storage. These new RIBBA picture ledges make a great library wall in what used to be a very awkwardly recessed wall.

Are you experiencing any menopause or peri menopause symptoms? 

Do your girlfriends really get it, or have they labelled you as a drama queen?

Or do you start D.I.Y projects and suddenly cant be arsed finishing?

Space Cadets

2012 - A head-space odyssey...

It's 8.10am. A school day. I'm still in my bathrobe, wet hair and shut in the laundry with a bucket of soapy water and one very unhappy and uncooperative pooch. Who's feet I'm about to attack with a scrubbing brush.

'Shit' where's the damn scrubbing brush got to?

The fur-person, having stepped in his own poo, walked laps of the living-room before finally settling onto his faux-suede futon while Lucie was having breakfast.

Child & Daddy Person comment simultaneously; "peee-yeeeew mummy, what's that smell?"

"Honey, what's that on Buddy's bed?"

I was busy working on gathering items for her show & tell presentation that we'd sworn the night before, we wouldn't forget and leave till the last minute. Hah!

We're pretty sure it's 'bring in something interesting from space' & I've found her glowing moon, but the battery operated sparkly stars she has her heart set on have gone A.W.O.L.

I looked at the pooh smears about the floor and peeping out from under our dog's reclining body, and that last minute stretched, grew beyond what any mother could expect to squeeze into your average school morning.

I think, 'Shit!' and I say "oh."

But never underestimate the power of last-minute-stretching. With help from the Daddy person, Lucie was out of the door at 8:45, yes, with a less than elaborate hair-do, but necessary show&tell items in her school-bag, a clean, albeit dispirited dog in the back of the car and that stinking pile of towels & dog-bed cover festering where they landed outside the back door.

We arrive in her classroom at 9am on the dot thanks to the kind benevolence of the traffic gods.

First thing I notice is that the show & tell topic indicator on the classroom door says; "an interesting fact about space".

'crap.'

First boy up has an artistic illustration his parent has drawn of a rocket;
He tells the class about the first Lunar landing and that it takes three whole days to fly to the moon. There were more interesting facts that I missed, because his classmates were restless and fidgety, and I was very busy thinking;
'crap'.

Lucie was the act to follow that.

"I brought the moon," she says extracting her little light-up perspex crescent moon -with what might have been a flourish if the plastic bag had been more obliging.
"..and a star!"

The entire fidgety audience was still and silent as Lucie, then her teacher fiddled with the star's on switch.

Finally lit, lights were dimmed so everyone could appreciate the glowiness & sparkliness of Lucie's moon & star and the silence gave way to soft "ooooh's" & "ahhhhhs"..

I feel kind of sad that Benji's better prepared, beautifully delivered & thoroughly informative presentation was outshone (pun-intended) by Lucie's little low-wattage light-show.

But that's show biz for ya :0/

Regardless, we are going to aim a bit higher & prepare a bit further in advance for next week:

Topic: What's you favourite planet? And why?

Any ideas? Please?

Gullible's Travels pt neuf - pass the Imodium

It wasn't how I'd pictured our first day in Paris, charging around desperately searching the base of the Eiffel tower for a loo; but they don't call it 'the runs' for nothing.

We'd arrived the early evening before and decided to just get an early dinner which, considering it had been in the very high thirties all day, perhaps taking  a plate of assorted meats, sausage, cheese and pate wasn't the smartest choice.

OK travelers' tip number one: if extensive travels have given you a sensitive stomach, don't order dairy and deli platters at the end of a very hot day.

Paris old girl, you are so photogenic, even your metro signs are pretty :0)

 

Travelers' tip number two: if you are exiting the Paris Metro, at the Eiffel Tower and you need the loo, don't even bother with the automated chemical public toilet outside the station. You may not even be able to see it, but there is one, behind a crowd of desperate looking crossed legged tourists.  If you travel around the path behind the Metro, you'll find a proper toilet just below the third foot you pass of the tower. This one with a human attendant is reasonably clean (as in not strewn in wet toilet paper from the function laughing named "auto-clean"). And it's free.

Let me tell you, after that little episode, I KNOW my Parisienne toilets, and most of 'em aren't pretty. How much time do you think that French 'male' waiters are going to invest in the cleanliness of any toilet let alone the ladies'? So stick to the bigger cafes & restaurants is my advice, call it wine-o-clock and stay put for a while.

So back to the tour, Lucie was so very excited about the Eiffel Tower. The only thing is that perhaps it would be prettier painted pink is all. What IS it with girls and pink?

Our dilemma was that in our pre-Eiffel Tower visit build-up, we had promised we would go up the top. If you find yourself on a family holiday to Paris...NEVER, EVER SAY THIS TO YOUR CHILD. 

by 10am the base of The Tower looks a lot like the base of an anthill - over-run with tourists.

Have you SEEN the queues to go up that thing? Worse than the toilet queues and that is saying something! There were about 200 people ahead of us in the queue for the elevator (l'assensuer). That's only my best guess because it snaked around the base of tower, out of sight behind the ticket office and other random buildings and back in view again.  There where only about 100 people waiting to climb the stairs, and Lucie decided stairs would the best fun anyway. Mummy and Daddy where exchanging desperate glances at this point, between Mummy's 'indelicate condition' and the inevitability of this vertical excursion turning into a ride on Daddy's shoulders, (from about the fourth step up) this was NOT going to be the best fun at all.

"Pretty tower" :0)

After unsuccessfully pleading our case to the jury and with Judge Lucie about to throw the full weight of the tantrum at us, Daddy spotted our saviour: "Look Lucie! A carousel!" And that was it,  case dismissed. 

Mic here is a hitch-hiker we picked up in Spain: turns out he's a celebrity with his own show on Catalan TV..

However, during these delicate and intense negotiations, we discovered that at 11.30pm the Eiffel Tower web site offer tickets for purchase for the next day whereby you can turn up at 9am and go straight on up avoiding the queues. However Lucie, not being much of a planner, (tomorrow's a bit of an abstract concept to four-year-olds) decided a few dozen rounds on a carousel with fine ET views was 'more fun and straight away'.

LOCATION LOCATION LOCATION

 

The Daddy person did us proud on the accommodation too, since our old favorite boutique hotel La Villa in Saint Germaine had priced itself out of our comfort zone.  He scored us a self catered studio apartment in Citadines Prestige Apart'hotel, right on the banks of the Seine opposite Pont Neuf .  So in the heart of Paris sandwiched between Saint Germain and Saint Michelle, and a mere bridge stroll over to the Louvre,  cost only 200 euros a night: more than reasonable for a premium location.

Nice and new, practical and not one bit of moldy silicone sealant in the bathrooms :0)

  
So being in the thick of Paris's coolest districts, we spent four days, shlepping about the Louvre; Soaking up the austerity of Notre Dame...

looking through the arches at The Louvre

Sipping our coffees in Les Deux Magots...

Slumming it in Les Deux Magots.. two tables down from a fashion photo shoot..

Ambling and clicking our way (cameras) along the bridges of the Seine...

Love locks on the Seine bridges look amazing glittering in the sun and have become a tourist attraction in their own right.. But of course in Sydney we're not allowed anything so frivolous..

Sydney city council takes to ours with bolt cutters...where's the romance in that?

And giving our sandals a good powder-coating in Jardin du Luxembourg's fine white sand. 

I didn't think I'd been shopping all that much on this trip, until my poor Samsonite's zipper burst. (And just out of warranty wouldn't you know it :0/ ) 

Woe is me (so not) I was forced to buy a bigger suitcase and I shopped some more :0) 

Pretty store but out of my fiscal comfort-zone

But you know, you need to fill these things right up, otherwise all that loose stuff will get seriously wrinkled from flopping around the open space...

Gullible's Travels pt huit; the mother of all tantrums

There are times where the frustration of not speaking or understanding the local language is a blessing. One of those times might be when you're carrying your shrieking, thrashing, beetroot-faced child through a peaceful village plaza in Spain. Said plaza being filled with locals who have, mouths agape, downed all utensils, coffee cups and glasses as they watch in stunned awe- the mother, father,sister and brother of all tantrums.

If tantrum throwing was an Olympic event, Lucie would do her country proud.

Lucie: "This is Hayla she's a REAL Barbie with lotsa lotsa hair."

I could blame the 'hangrys'* or I could blame over- tiredness, I could blame her linguistic frustration at having Spanish thrown into the mix, or I could blame the box of toys on sale outside a shop with a cheap nasty barbie-doll copy, front and centre. Personally I believe it was all of the above.

Regardless, I was absolutely NOT, going to include in the mix of new toys purchased abroad, a cheap nasty pretender whose arms would fall off in a day and had the hairline of a monk disguised with a Donald Trump comb-over. Even if it was only €2. Unfortunately I told her that.
Try defining the expression 'cheap and nasty' to a four and a half year old.

So. I staggered along to the carousel in the next street, my ears literally ringing from the screams of "she's NOT NASTY! She's KIND and NICE! I'm really GOOD at cop-ying, mummy! PUT ME DOWN! LET ME GO, WAAAAAGH!" (insert screaming crying various coughing, gagging and wailing noises punctuated with mummy person's attempted explanations, distractions, under-breath curses)

Two rounds of the carousel and five long minutes in what I can only describe as an inflatable, floating hamster wheel, and my cheerful cherub had returned from the dark side.

I always thought giant hamster wheels would be a great idea for kids...

We'd been taking a stroll around Ribes de Freser, a very cute village on the Spanish side of the Pyrenees.

Staying with good friends from Barcelona, they'd scored for us, excellent accommodation in a beautifully restored and converted 15th century grain-mill in the tiny hillside town of Campelles. And who would have thought a grain mill built in 1413 would ever boast of WiFi?

Everything had been going swimmingly up till then, with three young girls between us, there was plenty of play- time and paddling in the little creek for Lucie, albeit all in French. But she seemed quite happy trying out her shaky second language skills. However, four days is a little challenging to get onto Spanish time, where waking and meal times are about three hours later than we're used to. It's especially so, when your child - getting to sleep each night at 10-10:30pm, still wakes at 6:45am.

Yup- theres you recipe for disaster right there.

The next day, following tantrum day, which is what I'm naming it because it was sooo epic it wiped my memory of everything else that happened that day, we went to Nuria, a winter ski resort.
Nuria in summer, apart from spectacular scenery and a bloody-old and gorgeous church, offers pony rides, a lake full of row boats and grass toboggan runs, among other great stuff. Lulu and the girls rode ponies together, bounced their brains out on trampolines and spent way more time than we'd paid for on the toboggan runs.

When we got back to Ribes, the Daddy person suggested we take a walk around the town. He'd been provision shopping the day before and was therefore AWOL during the 'epic nasty' or he may not have suggested it.

But hey it was Sunday, the shops where all closed, what could be safer? We ended back at the carousel again and sandwiched between this and the giant hamster wheel was a sort of sideshow game a bit like a shooting gallery but with ducks swimming a circuit which you had to try to hook as they pass. Well to cut a long story short, Lucie showed herself quite the duck-catcher and guess what her prize was?

Yup, you got it, the cheap nasty copy barbie doll.

Furthermore, this morning her left arm came off;
"Muuuuuuummeeeeee!"

And what has Lucie named her? "cheap copy Barbie" of course

EPILOGUE:

So two days on, the arm-off incident seems to have illustrated my point partially at least. So 'cheap copy barbie' yes that's her name, gets waved in everyone's face with Lucie, before she even says hello, exclaiming; "this is cheap-copy-Barbie! She's NOT nasty, she's really NICE".

Lucie is for now besotted with this piece of plastic junk which may win the thing a stay of execution, but I swear she and a couple of others will be making a one way trip to the charity shop (if they last the distance & don't make it to the bin instead).
Look who's gone to the dark-side now...

some serious girlie time..

Even the laundry was gorgeous

Gullible's Travels pt sept - je ne comprends pas

Ssshh, I'm hiding. Lucie's coughing heard through the monitor, interrupted dinner and I volunteered to go check on her. Now I'm doing a bit of extended checking -also known as hiding out upstairs. In fairness it was her 'I'm about to puke' cough, but in all honesty I just need a break from nodding and smiling and laughing when everyone else does, not having a clue what the joke is.

Je ne parle pas très bien le français! Thats a fact.

After three semesters at Alliance Francaise and seven of eight CDs by Michel Thomas, (he's the Guru) I can shop, I can order food but I cannot converse in any meaningful fashion.

At a table of nine animated native speakers -I haven't a snowball's chance in hell- je comprends rien! And I mean nu-thing.

Its no-ones fault but my own- the Frenchie and I have been together for 11 years now. Epic fail on my part I'm not fluent in his mother language, but it slides off me like fried eggs on a teflon pan for some reason.

His parents have been learning English half the time I've been learning French and making embarrassingly better progress. They worry like hell about their accents but take it from me a perfect accent isn't always a good thing.
I am told I speak French with no foreign accent at all, so when I do open my mouth to utter one of the half dozen phrases I've mastered, the response is inevitably a barrage of dialogue I cannot hope to fathom. And the one useful simple phrase I cannot seem to master is "sorry I'm not French & I don't have a clue what you just said". So I end up just taking the cowards way out and asking "do you speak English?" in English.

So why didn't I do French at school like everyone else, you might ask? I went to a school that didn't have languages as electives, instead we had motor-shop, woodwork & metal work. I know what twin SU carburettors look like, I'm a dab hand at soldering, and I have a kick-arse selection of power-tools that I can actually use, but I remain the only member of my family who didn't do French at school! And of course the only one married to a Frenchie. Bugger.

So here I am hiding out in the rooms over the garage pretending I'm settling my daughter who's long gone to sleep, and dealing with the associated guilt trip by way of this confessional.

Bugger, I've been sprung-Mr Frenchie has come looking for me..

(sounds of phone hitting the floor)
I'll find it later..


Mr Frenchie if you read this
(a) I'm sorry I hid from your family tonight, and
(b) thank you for noticing my extended absence & coming to see if I was ok xxx
you're so lovely, happy birthday!

Gullible's Travels pt six - mon chien me manque :0(

Buddy as Rapunzel

Translation: I miss my dog. Has it been only 4 weeks? Really?

Now if you're not a dog lover you'd better tune out now, 'cos this post is dedicated to my buddy, Buddy.

In this ever-so canine inclusive environment watching those swim-suit clad dachshunds, and greedy little terriers with their restaurant platters piled with entrecôte, even when I step in dog-poo ( which in France is unavoidable) I just get this overwhelming desire to bear-hug my pup a l'orange.
You see, to steal a line from Jerry Maquire, he is " my ambassador of quaan".

The orange fur-person, who held all of the little pieces of me together for the tougher post-miscarriage months. My fuzzy, licky, nudger. He thought I'd died, I'm sure, when I didn't come back from an unscheduled hospital visit, turns out, with pre-eclampsia. He'd spent the week prior with his head glued to the back of my legs, only removing himself to sniff the toilet after I used it - he knew something was wrong.

6 months old

So tonight four weeks into our family holiday, showing my French nieces some photos of Lucie decorating him and film of them playing together in the park back home, it hit me with a wallop. I miss my nagging, soulful, needy, greedy, neurotic, emotional sponge of a mutt so bad it's like a stitch in my side.

Buddy's first interaction with a human puppy - here with our friend Darcey

When I think back of all the articles & pregnancy books I read that advised dog owners to distance themselves from their pets prior to the birth. (This is to avoid jealousy and any resultant negative and potentially dangerous behavior towards the new bundle of joy, from the four legged bundle of joy).
I was constantly tactfully reminded of this during my pregnancy, while sprawled on the rug with Buddy alternating between tummy rubs, ear tickles & bear hugs. My answer for nine months was "I know...I'll stop cuddling him so much, um, starting tomorrow.."

As it turned out, I never stopped cuddling him so much.

The 'experts' also advised taking items of soiled baby clothing home from the hospital to "get the pet used to the new baby smells" Buddy was not remotely interested, his first whiff of my hospital clothing however sent him into a frenzy. I was alive after-all.
And when he saw me, baby or no, it was business as usual.

He's been fabulous, we knew he loved kids from the way he behaved with our friends little grommets. But the time he took on an enormous male bull mastiff on our account I was truly impressed. Bud, (Doberman crossed with a smaller orange mutt) is 29 kilos of lean muscle, but this thing had at least another 20 kilos on him and it was running at me (with Lucie strapped to my chest in the baby bjorn) like a freight train. Bud had been mid-pee on a bush about 50 meters away when he saw this thing coming at us. He took off like an olympic sprinter out of the block angled across this monsters trajectory and hit it full pelt in the flank knocking it off its feet.

The 'Mona Lisa' smile

He was our hero. Even though it turned out the thing was an overgrown pup, just 2 years old, more interested in the ball thrower balanced on my shoulder than anything else in the park. I was still mighty relieved he didnt get to jump up on me and my teeny tiny passenger.

Buddy used the same technique a week later to rescue a female Doberman puppy who was being mauled by a big mongrel. We were about to get into the car after a long walk when suddenly there was this terrible shrieking and yelping. Bud flew across two rugby fields to hit the savage dog, like a torpedo, in the shoulder. The mongrel staggered to it's feet and took off in fright while Buddy stood nudging and licking the puppy's neck where she'd been chewed.

He's a good dog.

Other heroics include removing his best friend Aldo (a feisty Jack Russell) from the jaws of an insane Staffordshire Bull Terrier. That was one of the two times I've actually seen him really fight.

The "can't-I- come-on -the -sofa -too" face

And breaking up several pack fights, just by waltzing into the fray & giving the combatants a meaningful look. Each time the dogs disperse I wonder what it is he says or does in dog-speak that makes 'em quit & head home.
He does the same when I Lucie & I have a bust-up; as soon as the shouting reaches a certain pitch, in comes the orange peacemaker, shoving between us giving us both that 'meaningful' look...
Except I have no idea what it means.

So yeah, he's a needy, greedy, frizz-bee obsessed, cuddle-mugging, licky nudger and a colossal emotional sponge but he's also my zen-master and I miss him to pieces.

:0)

Saturday morning walks along the harbor

His new winter Dryzabone

 

Gullible's Travels pt cinq -" une autre verre de rose!"

Two of the most disturbing events in the last week, besides the daily gasper that is my first morning look in the mirror at my un-made-up face "[GASP] oh that's me";
One- walking into L'Orangerie restaurant in jardins public a bordeaux and seeing a waiter setting down a china plate of entrecôte...in front of a small terrier. :0I A platter piled with sliced rump steak for a dog? I wanted to slap the dog's owner across the face with a brochure for World Vision. I'm a clear advocate of canine inclusion but even I have limits.

Two- up-flushing toilets. You know the ones, they have a lot of them in Asia; the bowl fills up and up and up & just before it hits the rim it all gets sucked down ( hopefully). Try explaining this to a four-year-old who thinks her pooh is climbing out to get her.
As a result, Lucie is very reluctant to use any toilet outside Grandma's house - "it's too smelly mummy" and mostly they are.
This situation has developed an afternoon ritual of choosing a very modern (read expensive) cafe to take a glass of Rose, and a tour of the 'facilities'. I suspect that the horrid sate of public toilets in this country is financially supplementing the restaurant trade.

Speaking of food, glorious food... I LOVE this country if only for that, ( but not only).

For under €15 in Carrefour supermarket you can score a good bottle of wine, a jar of pate, a crusty baguette, 200g beaufort and a whopping great saussison! A veritable feast that would cost a bomb back home- if you could even find these goodies. We did find a suppler in Sydney who imports genuine saussison; $15 for half that size... and we feel blessed.
I also love the salads here; my favourite is 'salade des landes' it's packed with duck: pieces, gizzards & foie gras. Rich & fatty.. Oh yeah.

We are in culinary heaven :0)

Bordeaux is a beautiful city, the mayor has spent a lot of money on infrastructure and general beautification and many of the best and prettiest shopping and dining streets have become predominantly pedestrian. In the 90's the country's President also became Bordeaux's mayor & lo and behold funding was accelerated and the neglected city was scrubbed and buffed within an inch of its existence and a fabulously modern tram system was implemented making getting about even easier.

For the most part, major land marks and parks are all within walking / cycling distance. But for Lucie, the single most important land mark is the water mirror opposite place de la Bourse along side the river Garonne. Designed by the French landscape architect, Michel Corajoud, the water mirror effect is created in two centimeters of water over granite tiles that reflect the gorgeous 18th century building facades. On a timer, the water is drained periodically and replaced with fountains of mist and in summer the entire 3450 square meter mirror surface is covered with laughing wet children and smiling shoeless parents.

If you think Paris rocks, you'll love Bordeaux and its hard to describe this enchanting city without sounding like a travel brochure. But c'mon: the incredible fountains, the architecture, the historic roman ruins sandwiched between ordinary homes, and of course the shopping!

Bordeaux remains my shopping mecca - all my best leather boots came from San Marina (shoe heaven), Lucie's most colorful & original outfits came from 'Du Pareil au Meme' (conveniently next door to Petit Bateau- always worth a look of they're on sale).

Rue Sainte Catherine has all the majors like H&M, Zara, & FNAC (kind of Dick Smith meets Borders) & Galleries Lafayette. Kind of a more spectacular French version of Melbourne's Chapel street or Sydney's Pitt street.

So, or 'alors' as the say here: after a heavy day of accidental sightseeing while shopping and eating and generally splashing about in the landmarks its back home via a short stop on the carousel.

Did I say short? Another seven rounds later....