La Fête des Pères

“Lolo, where does your dad live?”

“He lives in a land far, far, away called California.” I replied.

“Are you going to see him this weekend for Father’s Day?”

“I wish I could, but much to my surprise, being your nanny hasn’t yet afforded me the opportunity to invest in my own private jet to fly to California.”

“But don’t you think that all he really wants for Father’s Day is a big hug and kiss from you?”

“Julia, you are absolutely right. I’m sure that would be one of the best Father’s Day things I could do.”

So Dad, if you want to fly me back to California for the weekend to receive a hug and kiss from your only daughter, then I’m absolutely okay with it. ;) Until then….

Internet, meet my dad:

He’s Italian. He’s well-dressed. He cooks better than any restaurant I’ve ever been to and in true Italian fashion, he talks with his hands flailing about. He hasn’t been seen without a beard since the late 60’s and I’m fairly certain if he shaved it, I’d unknowingly walk right past him on the street. He loves his chocolate at 72%, his coffee iced, and his kids at his side. If given the opportunity, he would spend his days outside hiking, exploring, adventuring; while passing the night watching The Andy Griffith Show with my brother, myself and a brick of chocolate. He doesn’t lose his temper, he doesn’t raise his voice, and he doesn’t know how to use the turn signal in the car. But it’s okay because he trusts me; trusts me to drive his new car when I’m home, trusts that I’ll choose the right path, trusts that I’ll ask for his help when I need it.


He refuses to let a winter go by without skiing a Black Diamond hill, a summer pass without frequenting the music festivals, or dessert plate with Cannoli get past him. At 59 years old, he can still out-hike his 25 year old daughter on the trails of Montana de Oro; or any wilderness trail for that matter. He’s the type of person to seek the good in people, open up his home and invite them over for dinner and some good conversation. He’s a genuine listener, a first-rate advice-giver, successful therapist, and compassionate father. But more importantly, he knows when to employ each role. He’s balanced, likes his alone time, loves all things organized and has quirks that still make me laugh.

Like his “Double Dress Sock” rule. Six year old Lauren sat with him on the closet floor, getting ready for the respective work and school day, as he intently explained that “You always wear two pairs of dress socks because they’re thinner and us Migliore’s have narrow heels.” As I pulled up my second pair of pink argyles, my mom walked in and interjected:

“Who do you want to drive you to school, today? Mom or Dad?”

“DAD!” I blurted out.

And that was that.

Suffice it to say, I’m a daddy’s girl; always have been. There’s something to be said about the Father-Daughter relationship that differs from the rest. They teach. They console. They support. My dad is the role model who taught me to negotiate fairly, compromise appropriately, and love unconditionally. Instead of fighting, we discuss. Instead of judging, we consider. We listen fully, respond accordingly and as a result, I gained self confidence, mutual respect, and pride in myself.

When I called him New Year's Eve because I was homesick, he called me back an hour later with a Southwest confirmation flight number. When I was going through some emotionally tough times, he planned a Father-Daughter weekend for us in Morro Bay. When I was living in New York, he met me there and watched every dance class. When I was nervous to move to France alone, he offered two weeks of himself to aid the transition, and when I was on the verge of frostbite, tears, and giving up Lyon because of the frigid temperatures, the cancelled trains, and the unaccommodating French family, he gave me his scarf, opened his arms and hugged me tightly. But more importantly, he gives me just enough space to discover things on my own, attempt my own adventures, make my own mistakes, and learn the appropriate lessons.

So this past Father’s Day, while I wish that I could’ve been there sitting with my dad on the front porch with his iced coffee as he completed his weekly crossword puzzle, I know that it’s not about the actual “day” as much as it is about the “times”. .. and I look forward to many more times of traveling, exploring, laughing and learning, with the occasional Cannoli (or two).


Happy Father’s Day, Dad. See you in a few months. In Europe. When you come to visit me. (Oh, I’m sorry, did I just make that public and increase the pressure for you to buy your ticket? That’s right I did!) Love you and "tinking" about you!

Gratitude:

• I just got back from Grenoble. Very cute. Very quaint. Very cold.
• Today is the "Fete de la musique" and there are music festivals going on all day around France to celebrate Summer Solstice.
• New and exciting plans in the next month deeming the month of July, the month of travel.
• It's supposed to be sunny tomorrow.

Day 13

I always considered “13” a lucky number. It’s the age when one becomes a teenager and knows everything. It’s the big bat mitzvah. It is deemed lucky in Italian culture, and Friday the 13^th has never provided any complaints for me. That was not the case on my day 13 of being here.

7:00 a.m.- Wake up. Make my daily green tea and take my daily chewable.

7:30 a.m.- Wake up the kids. Clement wakes up with ease. Cecile wakes up whining (however, she follows this pattern at most times during the day.). Get them dressed and downstairs.

7:45 a.m.- Sit with kids for breakfast. Cereal? Nope. Yogurt? Nope. Fruit? Not a chance in hell. White bread with chocolate spread, aka Nutella? Absolutely. (Best to get them on a sugar high then send them to school for their teachers to deal.)

7:55 a.m.- Brush teeth with the kids to show them that good hygiene is the cool thing to do. “Clean” is the new black.

8:10 a.m.- A blur of “Dépêche-toi! On-y-va!! Où sont vos bottes ?? Dépêche dépêche! (Hurry, Let’s go! Where are your boots? Hurry, hurry!!)" Side note: According to the Au Pair Reference guide, this does not work. The kids could care less about hurrying.

8:15ish a.m.- Take kids to school. Drop off Cecile. Park car and walk Clement to class. Today, I decided to leave the car at the school and jog home to get some exercise and enjoy my new itunes purchases (Thanks, Rachel for the recommendations).

9:00 a.m.- Arrive back “home” to shower, enjoy less than adequate instant coffee, and prep the kids’ lunch that the mom left for them.

11:00 a.m.- Walk back to the school to pick up Clement, Cecile, and the car. Bring them home for lunch and sit with them while they devour their chicken nuggets and purred vegetables mixed with cream and cheese. 3 parts cream, 3 parts cheese, 1 part vegetables. (Does this still qualify for the 5-servings a day, food pyramid?) No judgment.

1:10 p.m.- Déjà vu of 8:10 a.m. Seems like all is going swimmingly, right?

1:30 p.m.- This is where the day takes a turn. After dropping the kids off, I thought I’d drive to the shopping center a couple miles away to pick up staples like lotion, face-wash, and tea, since the airlines have hijacked my luggage. Bastards. However, the gas tank was on empty; Light on and everything. Mind you, this is despite my request to the au-pair dad, Francois, to fill it the night prior. Aggravating? Yes, but the independent Lauren thought, “I’ll just fill it myself.” (Mistake #1). The last thing I want is to run out of gas and be stranded in the middle of France. “Uhh, Triple A? Could you send a serviceman to France to fill up my gas tank? Premium membership covers that, right? Great, thanks.”

Stop at the gas station, grab black nozzle and begin to fill gas tank (this is the nozzle that the gas attendant instructed me to use when I asked (Mistake #2).

Gas attendant comes out. “Je peux vous aider?”

“No, I think I’m just about done (In French, of course. No one in this town knows a lick of English).”

She must be asking if I need help because of the gas spilling all over the ground and my boots.

Her, in French: “Just a moment, I will go get the mechanic. I think you are putting in the wrong type of gas.”

Shit.

Enter Mechanic. Queue rapid French dialogue. (Keep in mind that my ability to speak “car mechanics” in French is about as proficient as my ability to speak “car mechanics” in Chinese--Non-existent. However, I have a gut feeling that I know what he’s saying. It’s not good. With a lot of hand motioning, I understand. The gas tank needs to be emptied. Perrrrfect. He can’t do it until at least 4 o’clock. I have to pick up the kids at 4 o’clock to head downtown for Cecile’s cello lesson.

Me: “Can’t I just drive it home and bring it back after 4?”

Mechanic: “No, you can’t start the engine. If you drive the car, it will sputter and break.”

Me: “Oh, really? Are you sure?”

Is he absolutely positive it will sputter home? I'm sure it'd be fine. It's an old car.

Without choice, the car gets left with the mechanic. Start walking. Anxiety is streaming. Figure out the next plan of action. Do I call Francois and tell him? Do I head back to the gas station at 4 p.m. and hope that it’s done so I can pick up the kids and make on with the day as if nothing happened?. Do I call the neighbor to pick up the kids? Oh good, it’s raining. Thank God my dad is on his way to the house so I don’t have to go through this alone. Maybe they’ll fire me and send me home… Then I can just tell the airlines to route my bag straight back to LA.

Apprehensively, I called Francois and explained the situation, to which he responded that he didn’t fill up the car because “when the light comes on, it still has another 50 kilometers left in it.” My thought is that this is his way to control my driving whereabouts and it really doesn’t seem all too far-fetched.

The afternoon ended with my dad and I walking to the school to pick up the kids (Rain). Walking back up to the bus stop (raining harder). Taking the bus to the metro to the tram to the cathedral to the conservatoire for Cecile’s cello lesson (rain plus wind).

Francois met up with us there, lacking the reaction that I was anticipating. After greeting us and babbling in French, he commented to my dad in his broken English and obnoxious smile, “Lauren has a lot of emotions with us.” Huh?! I don’t know the meaning of that and I’m not sure I even care at this point. As remorseful as I felt about earlier, I was infuriated to be put in that situation in the first place. His comment fueled the fire.

So, in the end, they didn’t fire me. I’m not sure how I feel about this. Lesson learned: Always carry an umbrella. No, I still don’t know what type of gasoline the car takes.

Daily Gratitudes:

• My dad was there with me during this whole fiasco. He's amazing.
• In less than a month, someone from home is coming to visit. A trip to Cinque Terre, Italy is in the works. I’ve always wanted to see the 5 cities.
• With my missing luggage and all my undergarments hanging to dry, I’ve started going “Commando”... I kind of like it. It feels freeing and I may continue even after I get my luggage. TMI?
• These lists of "daily gratitudes" are keeping me from making lists of "daily annoyances."
• This book Merde: The Real French You Were Never Taught In School, has provided material to use for responding to Cecile's whining.
• My host family doesn't know about my blog.