Le Carte Bleu Part IV – and other tales of woe

I’m sick to stomach. Too sick to write, really – so I’ll be quick.

The market was beautiful. I love the market, and I figured I’d buy myself a few things since I worked hard last week and haven’t bought anything for myself since I arrived. One dress, one bag, one shawl, and several gifts later, I went to the bank. My high came crashing down.

I asked for my banker by his first name. The attendant quickly corrected me: “Monsieur Bertrand?” Sure.

I told him I have a problem: “I’ve received several secret codes, but no card.”

“Ah yes,” he said, “I have your card.”

Figures.

“But I need your carte sejour first.”

Shit.

At this point, I will never have the damn carte bleu.

Just about the point when I’m going to burst into tears, the phone rings. Ah, family! It’s the family who comes next, family I’m quite excited to see. And she tells me they’re quite tired and want more time to just themselves – can’t I stay in Cogolin for the whole time they’re there?

For crying out lout. Why did I bother asking six months ago? I understand ENTIRELY that they want they’re vacation to themselves – I just need a place to sleep, as I explained earlier. I’ll be out of the house all day. And I feel terrible spending more time with Maria and Tony, who have already graciously extended their hospitality quite enough. But at this point, there isn’t a hotel who will take me – or at least none I can afford – and I don’t know what else to do.

“Also, we want the car. Leave the car.”

Suddenly, despite the shopping bags, I have nothing.