All I want is my carte bleu – my key to internet, cell phones, hassle free groceries, the outside world. Instead of using it, it lies dormant in a metal box, sharing space with outdated news and unread birthday cards…because no one can find the mailbox key.
I figured only the post office could help me now. I trekked up to Ramatuelle and explained my situation entirely in French (because no one there speaks English). The woman behind the counter responded with: “I can’t help you.”
Surprise, surprise. “Who can, Madame?”
She did the typical French puff and shrug, then, “The facteur, I guess. You can speak with the facteur.”
The what? I didn’t know that word. (I still don’t.) “The factuer? Who is he?”
“The factuer is the factuer, obviously.”
Obviously. “Ok, well can the man who brings the mail leave the mailbox open?”
“No. Speak with the factuer.”
I left.
The next day I visited Alberte and Z. Z knows everything and can fix anything, so I asked him if they could open the mailbox.
“No, the whole family has asked me. I don’t have the key and cannot open the box.” It was the first time Z couldn’t fix it. “But,” he added quickly, “you can speak with the factuer.”
OMG. Who is this mysterious factuer?!
“Sometimes he is at the post office. You must go between 9:30 and 10:00 a.m., and maybe he will be there.”
Nothing is ever easy here.
Monday my father and I wound our way down our mountain and up the hill to Ramatuelle’s town center to visit the post office at the suggested hour. “What do you think, B? Think he’ll be here?”
“Absolutely not!” He laughed as he pulled away.
I marched in anyways and demanded to see the mysterious factuer.
“For what?” The woman asked – the same woman who “helped” me two days before. I explained the situation all over again. She pulled her lips tight and made a noise that assured me the factuer was far too busy and too important to see me. “But I will check,” she said generously.
She walked out of the main room into a tiny office. I couldn’t see anything, but I heard the voices – hers and a man’s. The French was too quick, too muffled to follow. Would the great and powerful Oz see me? Will he grant me my one wish? Suddenly a loud crash – the voices grew heated, quicker. A third voice joined the conversation. Things calmed down… down to a whisper. What was going on?
She emerged with an earnest expression. “He will see you.”
I waited five more minutes in anxious anticipation. He walked slowly out of the room, leaned heavily against the counter that separated us, and said in a long, low voice: “Oui?”
My Oz was a typical forty-something Ramatuellean: tall and too thin, absurdly laid back, soft white hair that messily hung below his chin, golden skin tanned from life under the sun. He wore the obnoxious honeybee-yellow shirts of the French postal system. Not very intimidating.
I explained my situation for yet another time. The moment I finished he demanded: “So what do you want?”
“I want my mail.” Duh.
“Then I come to your house and I open the mailbox.”
A glitter of hope. “At what time?”
“Pufft,” he said in that ridiculous way only the French can manage, “perhaps around 2:30? Or 4?”
I rolled my eyes. The French – especially the ones who live the lazy sun-baked lifestyle of the south – are never good with time. “I won’t be home,” I explained. “Can you leave it open?”
He launched into a long explanation in rapid French that I couldn’t understand for the life of me. But he nodded agreeably and said goodbye, so I figured I’d won my cause.
We’ll see this afternoon, when we return from the Gorge.
Monday, June 30, 2008
The World Cup in St. Tropez
No trip to this part of the world is complete without a drink on the balcony of the Hotel Sube.
So tonight, we put on our fancy clothes and walked around town until we ended up with two bottles of rosé and a bird’s eye view of the port.
It happened to be the final match in the World Cup tonight, too – and the Europeans do love their soccer. Crowds gathered at the few bars that have TVs; those that didn’t found radios around which patrons huddled breathlessly cheering their team on. We couldn’t see the game, but we knew whenever something happened – sudden shouts of joy and desperation would fill the warm air above the port, and a combined murmur of multilingual conversations would rise to reach us on the balcony. We’d laugh at the crazy Europeans and return to our conversation.
But we knew Spain won – All of a sudden all the yachts with Spanish flags touted their horns in unison, piercing the night air with celebrations. People laughed and screamed below, drinking and dancing the night away.
I love this place.
So tonight, we put on our fancy clothes and walked around town until we ended up with two bottles of rosé and a bird’s eye view of the port.
It happened to be the final match in the World Cup tonight, too – and the Europeans do love their soccer. Crowds gathered at the few bars that have TVs; those that didn’t found radios around which patrons huddled breathlessly cheering their team on. We couldn’t see the game, but we knew whenever something happened – sudden shouts of joy and desperation would fill the warm air above the port, and a combined murmur of multilingual conversations would rise to reach us on the balcony. We’d laugh at the crazy Europeans and return to our conversation.
But we knew Spain won – All of a sudden all the yachts with Spanish flags touted their horns in unison, piercing the night air with celebrations. People laughed and screamed below, drinking and dancing the night away.
I love this place.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
La Carte Bleu Part I: The Missing Key
Tuesday I was so proud of myself for setting up my French bank account -- I was one step closer to assimilating, to being a little more French. I just needed the carte bleu.
The banker promised it would come in the mail. He promised it would come quickly.
Wednesday I figured it was too early – there’s no way a large French institution would move quick enough to mail and deliver a card in 24 hours.
Thursday I was hopeful. I had to restrain myself from waiting by the mailbox for the postman to deliver the card, and – for better or worse – the battle for my friends’ luggage kept me distracted. When the Air France man called for directions, I told him we’d meet him at the end of the driveway (because otherwise he most certainly would have missed it) and figured I’d check the mailbox while we were there. I grabbed Chrissy from her perch on the "nappy chairs" and on our way out the door checked the little bowl that always contains the mailbox key. It wasn’t there.
I shrugged. Must be in one of its other spots, I suppose.
We retrieved the luggage and in the excitement that followed – including a long evening of rosé, champagne, tequila, more wine, a hot tub and Caribbean cigars – I almost forgot all about the carte bleu.
Friday morning, I knew it had arrived. I just needed the mailbox key.
I checked the cabinet in the dining room. Sometimes it’s there, but not this time. I checked the drawer in the desk, the only remaining logical location. Empty. I tore the entire house apart. Nothing.
My grandfather happened to call. “Papa,” I asked in my sweetest possible voice, “have you seen the mailbox key?” He was the last guest at the Chêne en Croix.
“No, and no one seems to know where it is. I asked everyone, the whole family. But if you figure out how to open it, I think I have a couple birthday cards in there.”
“I know you do.”
“You’re best bet at this point is probably to wait by the mailbox. The postman usually comes becomes between 9 and 11.”
Sweet.
A cold, frustrating panic set in and desperation took over. I marched up the long, rugged driveway and faced my adversary: Can I break the mailbox open? I tugged gently at its side, at the door. Far too strong for a sissy girl like me. Plus, what if breaking into a mailbox is illegal? What would I tell the family? What if the card’s not even in there?
I peered into the narrow slot: A couple old copies of Le Monde, something that looked like a greeting card, and – wait – Could it be? Yes! An envelope with BNP on the corner!
If only I had the key.
The banker promised it would come in the mail. He promised it would come quickly.
Wednesday I figured it was too early – there’s no way a large French institution would move quick enough to mail and deliver a card in 24 hours.
Thursday I was hopeful. I had to restrain myself from waiting by the mailbox for the postman to deliver the card, and – for better or worse – the battle for my friends’ luggage kept me distracted. When the Air France man called for directions, I told him we’d meet him at the end of the driveway (because otherwise he most certainly would have missed it) and figured I’d check the mailbox while we were there. I grabbed Chrissy from her perch on the "nappy chairs" and on our way out the door checked the little bowl that always contains the mailbox key. It wasn’t there.
I shrugged. Must be in one of its other spots, I suppose.
We retrieved the luggage and in the excitement that followed – including a long evening of rosé, champagne, tequila, more wine, a hot tub and Caribbean cigars – I almost forgot all about the carte bleu.
Friday morning, I knew it had arrived. I just needed the mailbox key.
I checked the cabinet in the dining room. Sometimes it’s there, but not this time. I checked the drawer in the desk, the only remaining logical location. Empty. I tore the entire house apart. Nothing.
My grandfather happened to call. “Papa,” I asked in my sweetest possible voice, “have you seen the mailbox key?” He was the last guest at the Chêne en Croix.
“No, and no one seems to know where it is. I asked everyone, the whole family. But if you figure out how to open it, I think I have a couple birthday cards in there.”
“I know you do.”
“You’re best bet at this point is probably to wait by the mailbox. The postman usually comes becomes between 9 and 11.”
Sweet.
A cold, frustrating panic set in and desperation took over. I marched up the long, rugged driveway and faced my adversary: Can I break the mailbox open? I tugged gently at its side, at the door. Far too strong for a sissy girl like me. Plus, what if breaking into a mailbox is illegal? What would I tell the family? What if the card’s not even in there?
I peered into the narrow slot: A couple old copies of Le Monde, something that looked like a greeting card, and – wait – Could it be? Yes! An envelope with BNP on the corner!
If only I had the key.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Work
I had to leave the beach early today. Conference calls and such.
Soaked with côte d’azur sunshine and L’Esquinade moules, I set up shop at my new desk. Listening to the discussion of social entrepreneurship, I couldn’t help but smile. The work I want to do, where I want to do it. The new office doesn’t look so bad.
In case you can’t see the view from the window… It looks like this:
(P.S. Please not the little book shelf/In & Out boxes! I made them out of the baskets we use to buy fresh fruit and vegetables!)
Soaked with côte d’azur sunshine and L’Esquinade moules, I set up shop at my new desk. Listening to the discussion of social entrepreneurship, I couldn’t help but smile. The work I want to do, where I want to do it. The new office doesn’t look so bad.
In case you can’t see the view from the window… It looks like this:
(P.S. Please not the little book shelf/In & Out boxes! I made them out of the baskets we use to buy fresh fruit and vegetables!)
Friday, June 27, 2008
Lost Luggage
One forgets how rural we are.
Le Chêne en Croix is on the tip of one of the many tiny peninsulas that jut out from France to embrace the Mediterranean. We have no street number – or no street, really – just the name of the house and the instructions: “Route du Phare” – or road to the lighthouse. When things are mailed here, it’s mostly a game of crossing fingers and hoping for the best. When I try to set up the internet, they laugh at me: “Oh, it will be very slow.” When I ask friends to pick me up, they suddenly aren’t going out anymore.
So yesterday, we faced a slight dilemma. Alex and I drove to Nice to pick up our guests and found both of them, each flew separate airlines, neither made it to Nice with any luggage. Both Iberia and Delta said, “Oh, we’ll have your bags to you within 20 hours. It’s our policy.” Then I gave them our mailing address. Suddenly the policies changed: “Um, yea,” they said, “we’ll have them sent to you by Friday.” Our guests left Nice with naught but their complimentary toiletry kits – complete with airline-branded tee shirts.
As we drove up the windy hill to the house, Chrissy commented: “Wow, it really is far, huh?”
“You know,” I responded, “It once took me five weeks to receive a package.”
She and Jon didn’t like hearing that much.
But all was not lost. It took several phone calls. It took more than 20 hours. It took some fighting, and It took at 300€ trip to Géant to replace bathing suits, shorts, tees and other necessities, followed by a relaxing evening of wine, tequila, cigars and hot tubs. It took two phone calls to French delivery drivers with jumbled directions. But the luggage arrived.
Jon promptly put all of it on. At once.
Le Chêne en Croix is on the tip of one of the many tiny peninsulas that jut out from France to embrace the Mediterranean. We have no street number – or no street, really – just the name of the house and the instructions: “Route du Phare” – or road to the lighthouse. When things are mailed here, it’s mostly a game of crossing fingers and hoping for the best. When I try to set up the internet, they laugh at me: “Oh, it will be very slow.” When I ask friends to pick me up, they suddenly aren’t going out anymore.
So yesterday, we faced a slight dilemma. Alex and I drove to Nice to pick up our guests and found both of them, each flew separate airlines, neither made it to Nice with any luggage. Both Iberia and Delta said, “Oh, we’ll have your bags to you within 20 hours. It’s our policy.” Then I gave them our mailing address. Suddenly the policies changed: “Um, yea,” they said, “we’ll have them sent to you by Friday.” Our guests left Nice with naught but their complimentary toiletry kits – complete with airline-branded tee shirts.
As we drove up the windy hill to the house, Chrissy commented: “Wow, it really is far, huh?”
“You know,” I responded, “It once took me five weeks to receive a package.”
She and Jon didn’t like hearing that much.
But all was not lost. It took several phone calls. It took more than 20 hours. It took some fighting, and It took at 300€ trip to Géant to replace bathing suits, shorts, tees and other necessities, followed by a relaxing evening of wine, tequila, cigars and hot tubs. It took two phone calls to French delivery drivers with jumbled directions. But the luggage arrived.
Jon promptly put all of it on. At once.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Un Peu de la Langue = Le Carte Bleu
I don’t speak French. I mean, I can get by… but barely. People twist their faces when I talk, trying to put together my words. But then they compliment my accent and tell me I speak well.
I was thrilled the customs people understood me. I was even more excited when I called Alberte – who doesn’t speak a word of French – and she understood my directions. (Although it was far from easy: there was something in there about boullibaise, but I’m not sure what… We may have been invited for dinner? And it took four tries for me to understand she was asking about the sheets, but I got it. Eventually.) I was even more ecstatic when her husband Z, who speaks even less English than Alberte, had a long conversation with me and we were both talking about the same things. I think.
But nothing could have prepared me for today.
My grandparents were kind enough to give me a check in euros for my birthday. I brought my gift to the bank whose logo was branded on the check and asked them to “Change it to money” (I’m not sure how to ask to cash checks here). They told me I need to open an account in order to do so. (Everything is harder here. And slower.)
I needed an account anyway. I’m sick of going grocery shopping and the cashier demands my passport because I don’t have a French credit card. I’m sick of being without internet, as I need the all-powerful carte bleu in order to sign up. Plus, I’m eager to be more French.
The problem was that this bank was BNP. Previously I opened an account at LCL, as the banker there speaks perfect English, whereas no one at BNP has another language. But having had such successful French conversations over the past few days, I was feeling cocky. I figured I could open it in French.
And I did.
It wasn’t always pretty. There was a lot of pointing and grunting, a lot of things I didn’t understand, and a lot of things I’m hoping I understood. I know two things: 1) The carte bleu will come in the mail. (Yea!!!) 2) I need proof of residency. Last time I faced this dilemma, I had to have my French cousins fax a letter to the bank explaining that I was living in Ramatuelle with their permission. It was easier then, as my banker spoke English and explained the instructions clearly. This time, the banker was telling me what I needed, and I panicked. “What?” So I just showed him the check from my grandparents and pleaded, “Please, sir, I just want the money.”
“Oh,” he said, taking the check. “Because your grandparents are customers of BNP, they just need to sign this.”
That I can understand.
“Ok, ok, I’ll come back tomorrow with it.”
The man shrugged. “When you want.” Ok, sometimes I love the slowness of this place.
And the card will arrive within the next few days. (I’m super excited.)
I was thrilled the customs people understood me. I was even more excited when I called Alberte – who doesn’t speak a word of French – and she understood my directions. (Although it was far from easy: there was something in there about boullibaise, but I’m not sure what… We may have been invited for dinner? And it took four tries for me to understand she was asking about the sheets, but I got it. Eventually.) I was even more ecstatic when her husband Z, who speaks even less English than Alberte, had a long conversation with me and we were both talking about the same things. I think.
But nothing could have prepared me for today.
My grandparents were kind enough to give me a check in euros for my birthday. I brought my gift to the bank whose logo was branded on the check and asked them to “Change it to money” (I’m not sure how to ask to cash checks here). They told me I need to open an account in order to do so. (Everything is harder here. And slower.)
I needed an account anyway. I’m sick of going grocery shopping and the cashier demands my passport because I don’t have a French credit card. I’m sick of being without internet, as I need the all-powerful carte bleu in order to sign up. Plus, I’m eager to be more French.
The problem was that this bank was BNP. Previously I opened an account at LCL, as the banker there speaks perfect English, whereas no one at BNP has another language. But having had such successful French conversations over the past few days, I was feeling cocky. I figured I could open it in French.
And I did.
It wasn’t always pretty. There was a lot of pointing and grunting, a lot of things I didn’t understand, and a lot of things I’m hoping I understood. I know two things: 1) The carte bleu will come in the mail. (Yea!!!) 2) I need proof of residency. Last time I faced this dilemma, I had to have my French cousins fax a letter to the bank explaining that I was living in Ramatuelle with their permission. It was easier then, as my banker spoke English and explained the instructions clearly. This time, the banker was telling me what I needed, and I panicked. “What?” So I just showed him the check from my grandparents and pleaded, “Please, sir, I just want the money.”
“Oh,” he said, taking the check. “Because your grandparents are customers of BNP, they just need to sign this.”
That I can understand.
“Ok, ok, I’ll come back tomorrow with it.”
The man shrugged. “When you want.” Ok, sometimes I love the slowness of this place.
And the card will arrive within the next few days. (I’m super excited.)
Saturday, June 21, 2008
All together now…
Yesterday the family’s flight was eight hours late. We made up for it by drinking eight bottles of rosé.
Today everyone seems to have suddenly and mysteriously developed the flu…
Of course, if there was ever a good place to recover from the previous evening’s alcoholic adventures, I’d have to say it’s a place like Tony’s. Here, as passing sailboats waving from the canal, you alternate between dips in the hot tub and perfectly shaded naps.
So much for arriving at the Chêne en Croix by noon.
When we had fully recovered, we made our way up the mountain. I saw the stonewalls marking the entrance to the increasingly bumpy driveway and my heart stopped. The orange walls peaked through the jade tree leaves as we neared the house. I am overwhelmed. This place is magical.
Alex had the best job: While Mom & I made lunch and B shopped for groceries, Alex opened the house. He was the first one in, unlocking the evergreen shudders to let in the golden sun and sea breeze. He was the first one to make his way carefully to the view. He was the one that brought the house alive, the house that will in turn rejuvenate all who enter it.
And while the family sat reading, I applied for a couple online jobs to supplement the income. I’ve never been good at being idle, but this time it’s worse. I’m lost without my Blackberry. Tomorrow I must fix it. I must reconnect with the world.
Today everyone seems to have suddenly and mysteriously developed the flu…
Of course, if there was ever a good place to recover from the previous evening’s alcoholic adventures, I’d have to say it’s a place like Tony’s. Here, as passing sailboats waving from the canal, you alternate between dips in the hot tub and perfectly shaded naps.
So much for arriving at the Chêne en Croix by noon.
When we had fully recovered, we made our way up the mountain. I saw the stonewalls marking the entrance to the increasingly bumpy driveway and my heart stopped. The orange walls peaked through the jade tree leaves as we neared the house. I am overwhelmed. This place is magical.
Alex had the best job: While Mom & I made lunch and B shopped for groceries, Alex opened the house. He was the first one in, unlocking the evergreen shudders to let in the golden sun and sea breeze. He was the first one to make his way carefully to the view. He was the one that brought the house alive, the house that will in turn rejuvenate all who enter it.
And while the family sat reading, I applied for a couple online jobs to supplement the income. I’ve never been good at being idle, but this time it’s worse. I’m lost without my Blackberry. Tomorrow I must fix it. I must reconnect with the world.
Good for the sole
The best part about living in le Midi?
When it came time to drag my ass out of my mosquito-ridden bed, I walked my dog with bare feet.
When it came time to drag my ass out of my mosquito-ridden bed, I walked my dog with bare feet.
Enter: le moustique
I suppose it’s only fitting that I spent my entire first night in France engaged in heated battle with a mosquito, and – of course – emerged on the losing end.
There’s nothing worse than the shrilling buzz of a mosquito coming to suck your blood, giving you that awful bump to haunt and pain you for days to come. I tried everything to free myself from his wrath: killing him, but it was too dark and I too slow; hiding under the sheets, but it was simply too hot; leaving the room in hopes that he’d follow me, then running back in and shutting the door to keep him out – but he inevitably found me again. I even bundled up in my hoodie, tying the drawstrings tight around my face to protect my skin, but nothing worked. Every time I dared to think me free of him, I’d feel him nibbling my ankles or hear the dreaded ring of his approach. My only hope was that he’d suck enough of my blood that he’d A) be full, or B) explode. I preferred fantasizing about the latter.
He didn’t bugger off until 6:00am, and I have the bites to prove it. At about the same time, the sun rose to reveal to lizards clinging to the glass doors by my head. I feel like I’m being attacked (again). (And strangely, there’s something comfortingly familiar about it.)
p.s. I am ridiculously sore. What made me think I could handle 150lbs of luggage by myself?
There’s nothing worse than the shrilling buzz of a mosquito coming to suck your blood, giving you that awful bump to haunt and pain you for days to come. I tried everything to free myself from his wrath: killing him, but it was too dark and I too slow; hiding under the sheets, but it was simply too hot; leaving the room in hopes that he’d follow me, then running back in and shutting the door to keep him out – but he inevitably found me again. I even bundled up in my hoodie, tying the drawstrings tight around my face to protect my skin, but nothing worked. Every time I dared to think me free of him, I’d feel him nibbling my ankles or hear the dreaded ring of his approach. My only hope was that he’d suck enough of my blood that he’d A) be full, or B) explode. I preferred fantasizing about the latter.
He didn’t bugger off until 6:00am, and I have the bites to prove it. At about the same time, the sun rose to reveal to lizards clinging to the glass doors by my head. I feel like I’m being attacked (again). (And strangely, there’s something comfortingly familiar about it.)
p.s. I am ridiculously sore. What made me think I could handle 150lbs of luggage by myself?
The Retrieval of Tequila
Having lived here in the past, I should’ve known that retrieving Tequila from French customs would be a ridiculous affair. But, for whatever reason, I honestly/optimistically/naively believed that I’d march in, hand them the paperwork, and retrieve my dog. The whole process couldn’t take more than 15 minutes, right?
Wrong.
If now, with glass of rosé in hand and champagne in the fridge, I could see the humor of this story, I’d write this better. But I can’t. All I have to say is thank God I speak French – even if it is painful for the French to hear – because no one spoke English. (Isn’t it odd that no one in custom’s was fluent in English?!)
This about sums it up: I walk in smiling, hand over my paperwork and wait. When the grumpy woman behind the counter scowls at me and speaks rapid French to her colleague, I start to get nervous. Something about a vet in Paris.
Then I start to panic. “Where’s my dog?” I ask repeatedly. I ask this to everyone I see over the next several hours, over and over again. “I just want my dog.”
With pain-staking slowness, her colleague fills out a bunch of paperwork while she continues to call Paris. Her colleague then addresses me more slowly so I can understand: “Take these up stairs to have them signed, then come back.”
I smile and go to follow his directions. It’s so French/painfully bureaucratic to have to march across a building just for a signature that I then must carry back to the original office before bringing it to a third, then a fourth, then back to the previous place, all for a dog that has a European passport. What would be even more French was if they made me pay at each location. Which they did.
Anyways, upon entering the second office, I found myself faced with an even grumpier woman than the one I’d left. She sat looking miserable, methodically stamping documents. She didn’t even look up when I arrived. Finally I – using my most polite voice and in careful French – explained, once again, that I’m looking for my dog.
“Door seven,” she says without ceasing her stamping.
I smile forcefully and find door seven. It’s locked. I knock on the door and suddenly become aware of a man talking behind it. I wait as patiently as possible as the panic deepens. “Where’s my dog?” I ask again and again, this time to Tony, who’s been kind enough to stick with me through the whole process.
Ten minutes pass. I knock again. “Excusez-moi, Monsieur?” His conversation grows more passionate. This is going no where fast.
Ten more minutes later, I return to the front desk. “Excuse me, is there someone else I can talk to? He is busy.”
The woman makes a fuss about stopping her stamping. Her gaze is stern. “For what?”
“I’m looking for my dog,” I say. ‘Remember, you idiot?’ I want to add.
“Door seven.” Her eyes return to her documents, her left hand methodically grabs the top sheet, her right hand tightens its grip on the stamper, and I realize I’ve lost her.
I return to door seven. The Oz behind it continues talking on the phone. My panic deepens still.
Fifteen more minutes pass before I return once again to the front office. This time, thankfully, there is also a man sitting behind the desk. French men are always nicer to me – God knows why. (Hah.) The woman and I have the same exact conversation as we had fifteen minutes ago, but this time when she dismisses me, the man jumps in. “Did you knock?”
I give him the most pathetic look I can muster and respond, “But yes, of course.” I flash a smile and sad eyes. “I just want my dog. I’m looking for my dog.”
Before you know it, the man is also knocking on Door #7. Unfortunately it doesn’t help; the man continues to talk on. I continue to worry. “Where’s my dog?”
Another ten minutes pass and I’ve had it. My feet march angrily towards the front office, my heart aches for poor Tequila who’s sad and scared and alone, my head struggles to string sentences together in French. Just as I’m about to launch into a tirade, I hear a door open. I know it’s #7.
I still can’t figure out who that man was or why I had to pay him 34€, but at the end of our incredibly brief interaction, he laughed jovially and said: “Yes, and excuse me about before, you know I was on the phone, and he was talking talking talking.”
“Yes, fine, of course,” I say instead of what I’m thinking with increasing anger, which is: “Where’s my dog?”
“You know how it goes,” he adds laughing, clearly not put off by my scowl, “it’s the French. We love to talk.”
Ugh.
The rest was painful. I waited in the warehouse forever, making small talk with the man running the show behind a glass window. He tells me I have to wait for the vet to see my dog. When I persist, he tells me the vet has seen the dog and needs paperwork. When I continue to nag, he says he’s waiting for the vet to call so that they can retrieve the dog from her kennel. When I’m about to flip out, he has his colleague take me to the vet.
“How is she?” I ask him.
“I don’t know, I haven’t seen her.”
OMG.
I’m painfully aware it’s nearing 5:00pm, and if I know one thing about the French, it’s that they don’t like to work. So if 5:00 comes and Tequila’s not out of customs and it’s time for them to go home, I don’t know what’s going to happen.
To wrap up an already too long story, we go with the vet to see Tequila. I enter the room and she’s not even barking; now I know something’s wrong. But she sees me and it’s all over. Her tail wags, she paws at the door, the water spills. ‘There’s my dog’ I think, and I shower her with love.
The vet checks her, scans her chip, has me sign more papers, has some woman sign more papers, and sends me back to the warehouse – sans chien. He explains that the dog is required to be released through the front entrance. I roll my eyes and follow his instructions.
Then I wait. Again.
We wait another 20 minutes at the warehouse for the vet to call and release my dog. The moment she arrives I let her out of the cage and all the boys who’ve been moving things in the warehouse swarm her. They explain that they’ve taken care of her all afternoon, giving her water and attention and such, and that’s why she’s so nice to them – she knows them. I keep my laugh to myself. Even if she didn’t know them she’d be lying on their feet begging for belly rubs. It’s just her style.
I’m just hoping she won’t beg too much from Tony’s boss’s friend, who’s taking us to dinner on the beach tonight…
God – despite everything, I love the south of France.
Wrong.
If now, with glass of rosé in hand and champagne in the fridge, I could see the humor of this story, I’d write this better. But I can’t. All I have to say is thank God I speak French – even if it is painful for the French to hear – because no one spoke English. (Isn’t it odd that no one in custom’s was fluent in English?!)
This about sums it up: I walk in smiling, hand over my paperwork and wait. When the grumpy woman behind the counter scowls at me and speaks rapid French to her colleague, I start to get nervous. Something about a vet in Paris.
Then I start to panic. “Where’s my dog?” I ask repeatedly. I ask this to everyone I see over the next several hours, over and over again. “I just want my dog.”
With pain-staking slowness, her colleague fills out a bunch of paperwork while she continues to call Paris. Her colleague then addresses me more slowly so I can understand: “Take these up stairs to have them signed, then come back.”
I smile and go to follow his directions. It’s so French/painfully bureaucratic to have to march across a building just for a signature that I then must carry back to the original office before bringing it to a third, then a fourth, then back to the previous place, all for a dog that has a European passport. What would be even more French was if they made me pay at each location. Which they did.
Anyways, upon entering the second office, I found myself faced with an even grumpier woman than the one I’d left. She sat looking miserable, methodically stamping documents. She didn’t even look up when I arrived. Finally I – using my most polite voice and in careful French – explained, once again, that I’m looking for my dog.
“Door seven,” she says without ceasing her stamping.
I smile forcefully and find door seven. It’s locked. I knock on the door and suddenly become aware of a man talking behind it. I wait as patiently as possible as the panic deepens. “Where’s my dog?” I ask again and again, this time to Tony, who’s been kind enough to stick with me through the whole process.
Ten minutes pass. I knock again. “Excusez-moi, Monsieur?” His conversation grows more passionate. This is going no where fast.
Ten more minutes later, I return to the front desk. “Excuse me, is there someone else I can talk to? He is busy.”
The woman makes a fuss about stopping her stamping. Her gaze is stern. “For what?”
“I’m looking for my dog,” I say. ‘Remember, you idiot?’ I want to add.
“Door seven.” Her eyes return to her documents, her left hand methodically grabs the top sheet, her right hand tightens its grip on the stamper, and I realize I’ve lost her.
I return to door seven. The Oz behind it continues talking on the phone. My panic deepens still.
Fifteen more minutes pass before I return once again to the front office. This time, thankfully, there is also a man sitting behind the desk. French men are always nicer to me – God knows why. (Hah.) The woman and I have the same exact conversation as we had fifteen minutes ago, but this time when she dismisses me, the man jumps in. “Did you knock?”
I give him the most pathetic look I can muster and respond, “But yes, of course.” I flash a smile and sad eyes. “I just want my dog. I’m looking for my dog.”
Before you know it, the man is also knocking on Door #7. Unfortunately it doesn’t help; the man continues to talk on. I continue to worry. “Where’s my dog?”
Another ten minutes pass and I’ve had it. My feet march angrily towards the front office, my heart aches for poor Tequila who’s sad and scared and alone, my head struggles to string sentences together in French. Just as I’m about to launch into a tirade, I hear a door open. I know it’s #7.
I still can’t figure out who that man was or why I had to pay him 34€, but at the end of our incredibly brief interaction, he laughed jovially and said: “Yes, and excuse me about before, you know I was on the phone, and he was talking talking talking.”
“Yes, fine, of course,” I say instead of what I’m thinking with increasing anger, which is: “Where’s my dog?”
“You know how it goes,” he adds laughing, clearly not put off by my scowl, “it’s the French. We love to talk.”
Ugh.
The rest was painful. I waited in the warehouse forever, making small talk with the man running the show behind a glass window. He tells me I have to wait for the vet to see my dog. When I persist, he tells me the vet has seen the dog and needs paperwork. When I continue to nag, he says he’s waiting for the vet to call so that they can retrieve the dog from her kennel. When I’m about to flip out, he has his colleague take me to the vet.
“How is she?” I ask him.
“I don’t know, I haven’t seen her.”
OMG.
I’m painfully aware it’s nearing 5:00pm, and if I know one thing about the French, it’s that they don’t like to work. So if 5:00 comes and Tequila’s not out of customs and it’s time for them to go home, I don’t know what’s going to happen.
To wrap up an already too long story, we go with the vet to see Tequila. I enter the room and she’s not even barking; now I know something’s wrong. But she sees me and it’s all over. Her tail wags, she paws at the door, the water spills. ‘There’s my dog’ I think, and I shower her with love.
The vet checks her, scans her chip, has me sign more papers, has some woman sign more papers, and sends me back to the warehouse – sans chien. He explains that the dog is required to be released through the front entrance. I roll my eyes and follow his instructions.
Then I wait. Again.
We wait another 20 minutes at the warehouse for the vet to call and release my dog. The moment she arrives I let her out of the cage and all the boys who’ve been moving things in the warehouse swarm her. They explain that they’ve taken care of her all afternoon, giving her water and attention and such, and that’s why she’s so nice to them – she knows them. I keep my laugh to myself. Even if she didn’t know them she’d be lying on their feet begging for belly rubs. It’s just her style.
I’m just hoping she won’t beg too much from Tony’s boss’s friend, who’s taking us to dinner on the beach tonight…
God – despite everything, I love the south of France.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Arrived
Over beers last night, I told my friends that when you get off the plane in Nice it smells like lavender and sea salt. They rolled their eyes and laughed at me.
Look who’s laughing now.
Look who’s laughing now.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
En route
Mostly I can’t believe how easy it was. Both of my big bags were (just) under 50lbs and checked through to Nice from Boston. My carry-ons fit perfectly under my seat and in the overhead compartment. Tequila was dropped off with only a minor hitch. My arm and back muscles may be sore for days, but if that’s the worst of it, I’m doing rather well. I even had time to buy coffee before my flight to Boston, and lunch before my flight to France.
Now I just need to 1) Find my bags at NCE; 2) Find Tony; 3) Find my dog.
Wish me luck!
Now I just need to 1) Find my bags at NCE; 2) Find Tony; 3) Find my dog.
Wish me luck!
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
It Begins (Again)
It’s my 23rd birthday – the age I’ve inexplicably been waiting for since I was a little girl. (Maybe this is the year I stop misleading people about my age. I doubt it.)
I didn’t know what 23 would look like; I just knew it’d be magical. I guess it’s fitting that it’s the day before a huge adventure – a return to France. It’s also the end of an era in my life: I have to say bittersweet goodbyes to mentors and colleagues, attend my last client meeting (which promises to be painfully exciting), and part with friends I’ll miss terribly overseas. These people and activities are my everything right now. How different France will be.
Am I expecting the same exciting adventures of 2005? The greatest thrill of that move was that I didn’t know anything or anyone. I was entirely out of my element; immersing myself in the strange surroundings of St. Tropez forced me to grow, adapt. But I succeeded; it’s familiar now. And since my return to the United States, I’ve adapted to a new life – one that includes constantly being connected to news and politics, to intellects and friends. I’ll have no such connections in Camarat, not enough language skills to debate anything intellectual, and hardly any friends – all without the excitement of the unknown.
I will, however, have the smells and colors, the beach and the rosé, the place I love more than anywhere else in the world. I’ll have my heaven.
For better or worse, I can’t process it right now. I can’t even think about it. I’m going through the motions of packing, wrapping up work, saying goodbyes and prepping my dog for her trip home. But I’m not excited or scared, sad or happy. I’m won’t be until I’m there with Tequila, looking at the Mediterranean with a glass of wine in hand and sand between my toes. Then I’ll know I’m starting a new chapter.
But for now, I still have things to take care of. And, at some point, I’d like to sleep.
I didn’t know what 23 would look like; I just knew it’d be magical. I guess it’s fitting that it’s the day before a huge adventure – a return to France. It’s also the end of an era in my life: I have to say bittersweet goodbyes to mentors and colleagues, attend my last client meeting (which promises to be painfully exciting), and part with friends I’ll miss terribly overseas. These people and activities are my everything right now. How different France will be.
Am I expecting the same exciting adventures of 2005? The greatest thrill of that move was that I didn’t know anything or anyone. I was entirely out of my element; immersing myself in the strange surroundings of St. Tropez forced me to grow, adapt. But I succeeded; it’s familiar now. And since my return to the United States, I’ve adapted to a new life – one that includes constantly being connected to news and politics, to intellects and friends. I’ll have no such connections in Camarat, not enough language skills to debate anything intellectual, and hardly any friends – all without the excitement of the unknown.
I will, however, have the smells and colors, the beach and the rosé, the place I love more than anywhere else in the world. I’ll have my heaven.
For better or worse, I can’t process it right now. I can’t even think about it. I’m going through the motions of packing, wrapping up work, saying goodbyes and prepping my dog for her trip home. But I’m not excited or scared, sad or happy. I’m won’t be until I’m there with Tequila, looking at the Mediterranean with a glass of wine in hand and sand between my toes. Then I’ll know I’m starting a new chapter.
But for now, I still have things to take care of. And, at some point, I’d like to sleep.
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