The weather in Paris this past week could best be described as impetuous. It has been warm, topping out most days around 13° C (which, now that I've finally memorized the conversion formula, I can confirm is about 55° F); after the cold and gray of January and most of February, this is most welcome. But it also changes very quickly. One minute, the sun is out; the next, the wind is whipping, splattering rain against the windows.
My office has been a good place to watch the weather. The windows are big and south-facing, and I'm high enough up (le quatrième étage, which in the U.S. would be "the fifth floor," since Europeans don't count the ground floor) that I can see across the rooftops of the buildings across the street. The only quirk is that if the sun starts shining too brightly, I have to open one of the windows to lower, like a flag, a black mesh screen. When the sun goes away and I want more light, I open the window, pull the rope to raise the screen and then tie off the rope on a cleat.
I took yesterday off from work so I could join Ashley on a tour of Notre Dame organized by the American Women's Group of Paris (which kindly welcomed me and two other male spouses). I'm glad I did. Our guide, Rebecca Defraites, is the only American guide currently giving tours, and she knows, and clearly loves, of what she speaks. We spent ten minutes alone on the three sets of doors to the cathedral, but it was clear that we could have spent an hour more with them and still not done them full justice, or exhausted Rebecca's knowledge. At the same time, the wind was whipping across the square, and we were wet from the rainy walk over, so we were ready to head indoors.
Notre Dame is on the Île de la Cité, at the literal and historical center of Paris. The Île is the site of the first settlement was that would become Paris, and the Place du Parvis de Notre Dame, where we stood wet and shivering, is kilometre zero for the French road system. Construction on the cathedral began in 1163 but took almost two more centuries to fully complete. From afar, and even up close before you get to know it better, it's monolithic -- large, Gothic and imposing. Up close, with an able guide like Rebecca, it resolves into innumerable details and features -- each, it seems, with a story behind it. For example, the heads of all 28 statues above the entrance were lopped off during the fever of the Revolution, but were later re-attached. The vertical axis of the north Rose window is angled 15 degrees to the right, while the axis of the south window is perfectly vertical, because it was actually reoriented that way a few centuries back because of structural problems. There are numerous other stained glass windows, but not all were installed at the same time; some were done as late as the 20th century. The colors of these newest windows are consistent with the older ones, but if you look closer, you see that, unlike the older ones, the design is abstract. Had Rebecca not pointed this out, I wouldn't have noticed, but as soon as she did, the differences were almost glaringly apparent.
It's said that cities are living things -- "[b]uilding, breaking, rebuilding," as Carl Sandburg said of Chicago. My biggest takeaway from our tour of Notre Dame -- and it is a big takeaway, for the myriad small details of the cathedral are dazzling but also, ultimately, overwhelming -- is that this also true even of some buildings.
So, why is the time in between my posts getting longer? There are a number of factors at play, some more favorable than others. I am starting to have a social life! I am meeting new gals, planning coffee talks, and baking for upcoming events (and sampling the baking for upcoming events). I am trying to get out and explore more, as it is imperative that I know my surroundings and feel comfortable in them. And then there are reasons that lean towards the more unfavorable. My house collects dust like Carrie collects Manolos. I am constantly sweeping, scrubbing and vacuuming so that I feel like I am not living in squalor (now I just need to paint the unfinished walls in the bedroom and bathroom, install an oven, and rewire the apartment for heat). Library book due? Gossip Girl DVDs need to be returned? One and a half hours later, I have arrived at the ALP, only to turn around and trek back home. Round trip: three hours and two very sore feet. And then there is my new "job" (not to be confused with my French lessons that start Monday and will be three days a week, three hours a day). I am the writing the print for the American Women's Group auction catalog. The event is going to be spectacular, and the auction items are insanely impressive. Louis Vuitton, Hermes, chateaus, homes on the Ile de Re, fine paintings, round-trip business class seats, but most of them I am unfamiliar with (send a Target dress my way and no research would be necessary). So, it takes this bargain shopper who likes to vacation in hostels, a little more time than it should to come up with clever text. But, to whet everyone's appetite for the big day, and to stir things up a bit, I have also been writing a weekly column for the AWG e-blast. I have hit a new low, and have stolen from the library. Not tangible material, but let's just say that "Gala Girl" was not without some assistance from a few DVDs.
So, whereas my writing used to be solely for the blog, it is now being blasted out to hundreds of women weekly. Don't be embarrassed when you read the text, as I have done a good job of not attaching my real name to any of them. As I mentioned in my last post, I am hoping to make friends, not lose them, so keeping these posts free of AMB is the best course of action. That, and making sure that I bring the best baked goods possible to each event I attend. So far, so good. I say this as I sit here with a freshly vacuumed-floor, surrounded by the aroma of Trader Joe's Truffle Brownies, waiting for one of my new pals to get here so we can go to a cafe and "people watch." Gala Girl would be proud.
AWG's Night Out on The Town
2010 Gala Event & Soirée
Good evening Parisians,
As all it-Parisians know, the event of the expats is inching towards us. The Marriott Rive Gauche will be turned into a black-and-white wonderland for the American Women Group's Gala, an event that all are eagerly anticipating.
What to wear? Whom to lock arms with upon entrance? And most importantly, how to secure a highly-coveted ticket? Rumor has it that they will be distributed shortly to member's mailboxes, and are a sight to behold. An inside source divulged that, "Paper has never looked so good." The noteworthy auction and tombola donations are impressive and plentiful, and the committee is working hard to make sure that no attendee will forget their evening---a night for the books. Only those books worthy, of course.
But the real question on the mind is, What to buy the night-of to support this outstanding cause? We insiders all know that a sneak-peak into the auction items is critical, and reserved for those in the know. So what gives?
Spotted: A chic, sunglass-wearing woman toting a bag into the AWG's Headquarters in the 7th with a Clarin's logo daintily spelled out across the white sack. Rumor has it that not only is Clarin's donating a skin care gift basket, but the list of hot, talented stylists auctioning off their services is growing daily (growing with style that is, if you are the lucky purchaser); Hair Bar and A Cut Above to just whet the palate. It simply can't go without note that Guerlain has also made the prestigious list of beauty items up for grabs. You could walk out a changed woman (while simultaneously changing someone else's with your purchase).
Start practicing your John Hancock, because the night-of it is going to be needed---frequently. The American Women's Group is doing this one right, and the details are only going to get juicier. Stay tuned, and start practicing your paddle skills.
Gala Girl here. The Gala gossip just keeps getting juicer. We all know that in order to fit in with the jet setting crowd and Hollywood royalty, a trip to a French chateau is a must. Brangelina is set to purchase one in April, 2011, while currently leasing. Not in the budget? (It is a recession, you know). The AWG Gala is your ticket to the glamour and prestige of a being chateau-bound, minus the need to make that multi-million dollar commitment.
Chateau d'Artigny, nestled in the picturesque area of the Loire Valley and near Chignon, is the original, and not to be confused with the hotel by the same name. We all know that phonies and cronies are a dime a dozen in Paris (and so very passé), so AWG has made sure that your chateau experience will be one of true authenticity. Speaking of, do not forget your J.P. Gautier at home. Although it may not be near a large body of water, there is a moat (sans dragons).
The Chateau d'Artigny also has to offer a fine boutique of antiques. As you showcase your fabulous new items in your flat, think of how magnifique it will sound to say, "Oh that? I got it when I was weekending at a French chateau." Don't divulge that it was after you were dining with Brangelina. Too much jealousy amongst friends is never a good thing.
And yet, the juice doesn't stop sizzling there. One of my reputable sources saw the Gala committee sipping café crèmes last Wednesday while chatting about the fantastic gift bags that will be privy to those in attendance of the grand event. While secrets are no fun, some are meant to be kept. But it never hurts to slip just a little information, as we don't want anyone to miss out on the Clarins.
Whoops! Did I do that? It is almost as bad as if I were to let known that next Gala Girl will be an interview with one of AWG's hottest.
Stay tuned, and start practicing your paddle skills.
Bisous,
Gala Girl
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Good evening Parisians,
The vivacious and "in the know" Lindsey Tramuta, cornered on the corner of rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud and Rue St. Maur, at Le Chat Noir, the "Central Perk" of the hip Oberkampf neighborhood. Tramuta sat down with Gala Girl for only a few moments, as Le Chat Noir was just the first in the lineup of an afternoon of socializing and it-scenes for the jet-setting and enviable Tramuta.
GG: What buzz have you heard about the "Black & White" Gala? LT: I've heard it's going to be quite the event - with dinner and dancing, great music, great food. I'm excited to get dressed up for the evening!
GG: If you could predict the actions of your paddle, would it move more for beauty (product and services) or art work? LT: I'm definitely more inclined to spend on beauty (products and services), despite how much I like art. The brands that are donating to the event are some of my favorites, so I can't miss out!
GG: Attire: chic or classic? LT: Chic! This is supposed to be a stylish Gala so I hope people will break out of their shell a little bit!
GG: Beverage preference: rouge or blanc? Bubbly or still? LT: I'm partial to white wine and champagne and I don't think there will be a shortage of either at the event!
GG: This has been deemed the possible Parisian party of the year. What do you have to say to those poor souls that may miss it? LT: Those who can't make it or choose not to come will be missing out on one of the most affordable nights out in Paris - how often can you get a sit down dinner, open bar, wine and champagne AND dancing? We'll make them all jealous!
And off she went, Chanel sunglasses perched on her cute, snow-white face, Longchamp dangling from her Sonia Rykiel-clad arm. It doesn't take rocket scientist (or Kiehl's chemist to know); this Gala is not to be missed.
Stay tuned, and start practicing your paddle skills.
Bisous,
Gala Girl
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Good evening Parisians,
Atlanta, Georgia: world headquarters of Coca-Cola, birthplace of Martin Luther King, Jr., and home to the bubbly southern belle, Barbara Arkedis. Even from across the pond, the Georgia Peach herself was more than willing to put down her crown at the Atlanta Civic Center(Princess Di’s I might add, but we all know Barbara is royalty), to gab about the gala.
GG: With the noteworthy date of March 27th quickly approaching, please enlighten us on how you are going to get your auction paddle arm limber and strong enough to beat out the other bidders.
BA:Have worked up to 80 reps with 20 lb weights and practicing the phrase "Outta my way!" in French and English.
GG: The auction item list just keeps getting longer and more luxurious. From Louis Vuitton, to week-long getaways in the Ile de Re, the options are impressive and drool-worthy. Please leak to the Gala Girl readers how you plan to spend your evening---going for the goods, or securing your next vacay?
BA: Why choose? I'm doin' both!
GG: When the wine auction is complete, and the attendees are full on scrumptious savories and ready to break it down to the excellent music selection, are you predicting rug-cutting or cutting-up?
BA: As I said, Why choose? I'm doin' both!
GG: Fashion week just ended, and the nouvelle lines are out. Any recent observations on how to tie in white to accompany that LBD (for all new GG readers: Little Black Dress)? We all know that a dress-code is not to be tampered with.
BA: Welllllll, there are pearls, newly whitened teeth, an armful of "pain de mie" and bobby socks....rock on!
GG: L’Envol and Coeur de Femmes are the two charities benefitting from this event. We all know that philanthropy trumps personal fulfillment. However, could you comment on the idea that this event seems to be the perfect combination of both?
BA: Indeed it is the perfect combination of philanthropy and personal fulfillment, so "attend and spend" should be the evening's motto!
As Barbara puts down her crown and heads for the carats, we all know it is just a matter of time before this queen graces Paris with her presence.
Will it be pearls? Will it be pearly whites? Whatever your white, just remember to bring your green. It seems to me, however, that there is only one color that sums up how you will feel if you miss this star-studded, momentous event: blue. And we all know that is never a flattering look.
Stay tuned, and start practicing your paddle skills.
Oh, who are the people in your neighborhood, In your neighborhood, in your neighborhood. Say who are the people in your neighborhood-- The people that you meet each day?
These lyrics were amusing to me as a child while I watched (and adored) Sesame Street, and perhaps unlike then, when it was more the fact that a large yellow bird and a grouchy indistinguishable animal that lived in a trash can were the singers, the lyrics are now relevant to me. Maybe it is because unlike Julia, who seemed to be able to talk to every vendor at the marché despite no grasp of the language (at least initially), I don’t have a bond yet with any people in my neighborhood. In fact, until Saturday, Matt and I hadn’t even really explored our neighborhood, let alone made friends with the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker (or in our case, the fromager).
We live in the 11th arrondissement -- a fact that perplexes people when we tell them we live there. This confusion stems from two possible situations. Either the person has never heard of it (or tells you that they have never been but they have heard that it is the new “hip arrondissement,” a translation that even I can figure out: “up and coming,” or in a less cloaked way, peppered with bo-bos (bohemian bourgeois) and homeless). Or they find it seemingly odd that two Americans with no French skills, whose only prior Parisian connection belongs to the Louboutins I wanted for my wedding, ended up in a district reserved for the French and French alone. At first I was frustrated by our decision to sign a lease in an area we had never been (and most people never will be). We have to fight the riff-raff for a washing machine some days, and the fact that it takes me six miles to walk to any meeting or event I have, can be cumbersome.
However, upon further inspection on Saturday, the Monceau Flowers on the corner may be blooming even greater than before. I say that as I think about the Whole Foods-esque store on the street behind ours, where we could get some tofu delight (a gem in Paris) and then sit in the park that is a block from us. Or we could grab a book and a bottle of wine, and sit by the Nation monument that, with the blue sky above it, is inviting and both intimidating at the same time. Or, we could simply sit by our window, sipping thé and watching the incessant movement down below -- apparently a rarity on the weekends for most districts. If we want to leave the "comfort" of home, we could saunter over to thé salon next to an even larger, more luscious park, and enjoy bon-bons from a patisserie, or work on our quilting with the squares we purchased at the sewing store nearby that sells toile pajamas (which is why I initially walked in). And, to top it all off, after a night out in the trendy Oberkampf area of the 11th, we found a supermarché open right across from us. Frozen pizza and friend potatoe balls never tasted so good.
But the question still remains, “Who are these people in my neighborhood?" (Some of it more like 'hood.) After a long chat with our new French friend, Julien, at Au Chat Noir on Saturday evening, apparently we are living amongst the young artists and budding cinematographers. Hipsters, yes, but so much more hip because they are Parisian. Julien had heard of my old neighborhood, Philadelphia, complements of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. He also likened Au Chat Noir (the bar we headed to after La P'tit Garage) to the “The Central Perk” from "Friends" (a neighborhood meeting spot for those of you without a "Friends"-watching background -- think Cheers). I think Julien and I are going to be very good friends, indeed (now if he quotes Brigdet Jones’s Diary, Matt and I may need to have a talk). All signs pointing up, in order to proceed on my 'hood high, all I need to do now is make nice with the young monster upstairs so that when I bang on the wall, he ceases the mind-numbing activity that never ceases to annoy me. Or better yet, if I make friends with the garbage men in my neighborhood, maybe I can just accidentally have them take away his scooter so as to eliminate that noise as it cascades across the floor. Oh wait, I wanted to make friends. Well, I think Bert and Ernie would have agreed that doing the right thing is the most important way to operate. Which is why, for the sake of my sanity, I am going to stand outside with a plate of my finest Nutella-smothered cookies, and wait for the garbage truck to arrive. It is my civic duty to make friends with them, right? The Cookie Monster would most certainly be on my side.
Let’s be truthful. Ashley and I don’t really want to learn how to speak French. We just want to pick up enough so that when we return to the States, we can pepper our conversation with well pronounced French phrases and respond when someone else who knows we lived there points to something in French and asks, “What does that mean?” If we can answer correctly, then our time living here will not have been for naught. If we can’t, it will be embarrassing -- for other than impressing your friends back at home, what’s the point of living abroad? Even so, I have actually managed to pick up a few things already -- which, at the risk of treading into David Sedaris territory, I'll share with you now:
- Same to you. The French are exceedingly polite, so when you’re, say, getting off an elevator or exiting a store, your fellow passenger or the person behind the counter is bound to say something like Bonne journée (Have a good day) or Merci, au revoir (Thanks, see you again). All you need to do is repeat back what they’ve said, and append à vous (to you) if you want to be formally polite, or à toi (to ya), if it’s appropriate to be less formal. Which, if the person is a total étranger, it probably isn’t.
- Bon bons. Being so polite, the French wish one another well on occasions both big and small. In addition to bonne journée, there’s bonne soirée (have a good stylish party evening), bonne chance (good luck), bon courage (Godspeed), bon week-end (no translation necessary) and, of course, bon appétit and bon voyage. The last one is used a lot in America, but I have yet to hear it in France. That’s probably because our major trips so far here -- across the city to the shopping mall in La Défense and to Ikea -- aren’t worthy of well wishes.
- Self-evident truths. The French are smart -- after all, they invented "democracy, existentialism, and the ménage à trois," as Jean Girard reminds Ricky Bobby in Talladega Nights. But sometimes people say things that are so obvious that the only proper response is, in effect, “Duh!” In the U.S., such axioms include “You know, you really do get a lot of fries when you Super-Size®.” In France, it’s things like “Now that lunch is over, the proper thing to do is have coffee,” or “Those fifteen minutes of sun this morning were a welcome relief from the grayness of this Parisian winter.” The phrases to use in response to such truisms are bien sûr (certainly) and mais oui (but of course). You’re not seconding what’s being said. You’re saying, “That’s so obvious, you didn’t need to say it in the first place.”
- Expression of metaphysical doubt. Beyond these few a priori truths -- coffee follows lunch; winter in Paris is gray -- lies a vast plain of existential uncertainty. “When will our cartes vitales, providing proof of our health insurance, arrive?” “Why is there a dollar sign and a pound sign on my French keyboard, but no euro sign?” To these and so many other questions, the only answer is Je ne sais pas (I don’t know). When said properly -- with a preceding “poof” of your lips and a slight shrug of your shoulders -- it suggests more than that the answer is unknown. It suggests that we are feeble beings subject to indeterminate forces far larger and more powerful than us. That is to say, it’s unknowable.
- So sorry. When all else fails -- and more often than not, it does -- apologize: Desolé(e), je ne parle français (I’m sorry, I don’t speak French). Sometimes I add très bien (very well) to the end of the phrase, pretending to myself and to the person who has just mistaken me for a French-speaker that I actually do know the language, just not well enough to answer the complicated question that he just asked (even if it more likely was something along the lines of Où est la bibliothèque?). An American friend of ours adds J’ai seulement vécu en France six mois (I’ve only lived in France six months), even though she’s been here several years. If you’re female and you’re writing the apology, you add the extra “e” to desolé so that it’s properly in the feminine (the gender of French nouns and adjectives being the thing that vexed David Sedaris most about la langue). But if you’re writing the apology, then you probably have access to Google Translate, which is a Godsend and yet another reason why it’s not necessary to learn French for real.
As an added bonus, I notice that I've started to use more English -- as opposed to American -- words. More often than not, we refer to our "flat" rather than to our "apartment." When I go to lunch with friends at work, we meet at the "lift," not the aforementioned "elevator." And when I called Ikea to get information about returning a sofa slipcover, the rep didn't understand when I said I wanted to "mail it back," but did when I said I wanted to "put it in the post." So it's safe to say that, regardless of whether I actually learn any French, I'll be insufferable when I return to the States.
I can pretend that I am French. In terms of my attire, I am giving it a shot. Sweaters, leggings (swapped out with patterned tights), and flat boots are my daily uniform. With my new Parisian chop, I swipe it messily into a barrette (the less work, the better, I have noticed) and head out to tackle the day. The only make-up I wear is my Burt's Bees colored chapstick, which gives my lips a nice bright red hue. My guise seems to be working, as I have been stopped frequently for directions (or at least I assume that is what they are asking me). With my mastered phrase of "Parlez-vous anglais?," they sort of look at me with confusion (and perhaps minor disgust) and move on.
It boils down to the vowels. Whereas I do believe I have mastered pronunciation of the English language, this makes reading and pronouncing French even more complicated. "A" is not that. "Ou", forget it. So, as I got ready for my coffee yesterday, I was only too excited to head to Boulevard St. Germain to sip cafe creme at Cafe des Florez. That is right, taking one of Paris' staples, and turning it into a Latin club. Or so my pronunciation to Matt led on. As in Matt's usual demeanor, he politely corrected me, while trying to do so in a way that does not lead me to act like a five-year-old in protest. Apparently (although I missed the memo), Cafe de Flore is one of the most well-known cafes in Paris (please note: it can't be that cool if I haven't heard of it). Matt and I went back and forth for a little while, luckily between bites of peanut butter toast, so that my bickering was minimized by sticky mouth, and I left thinking that of course I was right. He continued his reaffirmation over email, but as any good wife does, I ignored him. I was very busy trying to "play Parisian" on my walk over to the sixth arrondissement.
As I approached Cafe de Flore (or Cafe des Florez, for those of you who are sticking by me), I was in awe of its window boxes, hip clientele, and very "French" feel (I am sure the Latin flavor was upstairs). It was the "Welcome to Cafe day Floor" that won the battle. Of course, who is to say that the waiter was saying it properly, but I am going to trust him on that one (the 5.20 euro bill for a coffee, on the other hand, I am still questioning). As I sat there with some other American women, gabbing about French banks, talking about life in Paris, and catching up on their life stories, I couldn't help but feel just a tiny bit French. However, I sealed the deal while I was walking home (from the American Library, mind you), having just passed Cafe des Florez once again. After having just been stopped for Metro directions, I then was stopped by a lady who, upon my presentation of "Parlez-vous anglais?" asked in broken English, "How do you pronounce that?" She pointed at Cafe des Florez, and my smile grew awkward and wide. The irony was overwhelming, and in a proud, very certain voice, I gave my best rendition of Cafe de Flore. I swear Matt had paid her.
When I got home last night, Matt handed me Paris to the Moon, a book sent to me here by my fantastic friend, LMD. He opened to the chapter "A Tale of Two Cafes" and invited me to read. Earlier this morning I had no idea where I was heading (let alone how to say it). By the afternoon, I had become a guide to the "foreigners" on how to pronounce it. And come nightfall, I read, "Still, one of the things that you learn if you live as a curious observer (or as an observed curiosity) on the fringes of the fashionable world of Paris is that the Flore remains the most fashionable place in Paris..." As this nicely sums it up, I am slowly learning. If I keep it up at this pace, I may be able to show visitors the Eiffel Tower and pronounce it properly. One can only dream (while swallowing their pride, perhaps).
Saint Valentin was three days ago, but I couldn't let these photos go unposted or the care and effort that went into what they show go unsung. So here goes.
Until I moved to Paris, I thought I had lost the ability to sleep in. Ever since college, staying in bed past 10 a.m. on a Saturday or Sunday was "late." But since we've arrived that's changed. Work is busy, and many weeknights we're at events at the American Library in Paris or elsewhere, trying to make new friends. By Friday night, I'm usually a zombie. Add to that a couple of late nights two weekends ago spent watching Season 1 of Gossip Girl -- time very well spent, I might add --and 11 a.m. or later has become the norm for me.
What does that have to do with these photos? Well, this past Sunday, I emerged from our bedroom around 11:30 to find Ashley at the computer in the living room, typing busily away. She looked up, smiled and gave me a look that said, "Nice of you to make it," and then returned to the keyboard. When I got to the dining room, I found this magnificent Valentine's Day spread awaiting me.
Looking closer, I noticed that this was no ordinary toast. Not only was it slathered in peanut butter (which, being rare and expensive in Paris, we consume with the zeal that the English probably had for rationed jam in WWII); the bread was cut in the shape of hearts.
Making my way further on to the kitchen (trust me, our flat is not nearly as large as mention of the various rooms may make it sound), I saw that on this morning we wouldn't be drinking from our usual over-sized Starbucks coffee mugs. We would be sipping from two lovely demitasses.
Saint Valentin couldn't have designed them any better himself.
Ashley has already posted a thoughtful Valentine's Day reflection of her own. All that I will add, three days later, are a few words of French that I know: Merci beaucoup, mon petit gâteau. Je t'aime.
She dismissed the massed scholarship of Michelin and Gault Millau with one of those shrugs only the French execute successfully, and which, like that "pouf" sound of casual contempt, they learn in the cradle.
"But those include all cafés and restaurants. This" -- she held up her new cahier -- "is only for ma griffe."
Though griffe literally translates as "claw," Parisians have redefined it to mean "stamp," "label" or "signature." It describes the pattern of favorite cafés, shops, walks, meeting places, which each of us imposes on the city and which makes it uniquely "our Paris."
-- John Baxter, Immoveable Feast Wines
- Moelleux Bordeaux (blanc)
- Chateau Daublac Bordeaux (rouge)
- Gros Plant 2006 (blanc)
- The rosé (there's only one the menu) at Juvenile's - ...and assorted vins de pays from our friendly neighborhood Franprix
Screening out the sun.
The north Rose window.
Start practicing your John Hancock, because the night-of it is going to be needed---frequently. The American Women's Group is doing this one right, and the details are only going to get juicier. Stay tuned, and start practicing your paddle skills.
