Operation Escargot

Aix en Provence is under siege! We've been taken over. Okay maybe not taken over, but we've been blocked. Blocked by Operation Escargot.


Apparently the venders who sell soft goods at one of our markets are ticked off. They've got a list of the city's transgressions to be sure, but their main gripe is that they've lost one day of market this year. They want it back and thus they have been blocking the entrances to the city for the last 3 days starting at 7 am.

Aix en Provence has a reputation as having a great market. We have our regular market, held 7 day per week market at Place Richelm where one can buy fruits, veggies, sausages, cheese, fish and a few other things. Our other market on Place des Prêcheurs, is held Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. It includes all the aforementioned items and then some. It's bigger, busier and includes a brocante as well as the soft-goods dealers who sell clothing, fabric, and shoes. The soft-goods market spreads out into the streets behind the Palais du Justice...normally. But changes this year have them remaining in their normal spot on Saturdays, moved to Cours Mirabeau on Thursdays, and their market was eliminated on Tuesdays. I've never been able to find out exactly why.

Anyway they're ticked. So they're on strike and each morning they choose a couple of main city entrances to block and then they eventually rally their white trucks and vans around the Rotunde, our central circle. My friend Lynn tried to get into town Monday, not knowing about the grève. She called me to find out what was going on because she was stuck in infernal traffic, so bad she said, that people were actually getting out of their cars and leaving them. Oops, I forgot to tell her about the local newspaper tweet that I had seen regarding this little inconvenience! I just didn't think it would be so all-encompasing. Yesterday her plan was to try again and I followed the newspaper tweets so I could tell her which entrances were actually open and where to park. Our collective effort managed to get her into town.

The forains say they're going to hold out and Operation Escargot will continue until they get their market back. I, for one, would love to have them back on Tuesdays but this is feeling a little like terrorism to me. Nobody stops them, this is France after all, and striking is a national pastime. But at what point can the city just say," Knock it off? We can't have a market on Tuesday for such and such a reason and our people need to be able to get in and out of the city."

So for now, it's pretty quiet here in the old town. If you're trying to get into Aix anytime soon, I suggest that you arrive in a white van and join the parade. That should deposit you in centre ville without a worry.

Let's get serious

My mom skyped me yesterday (skype now being a verb in the same way that google has now become a verb) and the first thing she said to me is, “Where have you been?”

“What do you mean where have I been? Since I got back from Switzerland a week and a half ago, I’ve been here, Mom.”

“No, I mean you’ve been silent”.

“I have not. I talked to you several times last week.”

“But you haven’t written your blog. It’s like you’ve dropped off the face of the earth.”

I smiled to myself because I thought it was funny that my mom looks forward to reading my blog when she can simply talk to me any time she wants. And I put forward a few lame excuses like “I’ve just been so busy”, or “it’s been so beautiful here I haven’t wanted to spend my days indoors”.

But in fact, I finally had to admit that in light of all the horrible things going on in the world today, the little details of my life seemed  just…so….little. Inane, trivial, trifling…insignificant ( I know I’ve got a thesaurus on this computer…I’m sure I can find more adjectives!). I’ve written pages in my head as well as in my pocket notebook that is with me at every moment. But the words have remained lodged in gray matter or between two laminated cardboard covers where I felt they belonged.

While in Switzerland I heard (tardily) the news from Japan. I read a little about it but we didn’t have a television and, of course, I couldn’t understand Swiss-German commentary on the radio or read the newspapers. And I happily went on with my pleasures.

When I returned, however, I began watching the news. Incessantly. French, American and British troops begin their strikes in Libya. The Japanese people, devastated from their losses after the earthquake and tsunami and the entire world in danger from the nuclear power plant disaster. Syrians being murdered in the street because of their basic human need for freedom. And I have continued to stare at the television like a rubber-necker at a traffic accident.

My first year here in France, I was blissfully unaware of the goings-on in the world. I had no television and, of course, I couldn’t read the newspapers. I slept like a baby….for the first time in years. I haven’t slept so well in recent weeks. Don’t get me wrong, I am not, by nature, a worrier  (I have my friend Mary to do that for me). I have been blessed with an innate sense of optimism that I’m eternally thankful for.  But I’m beginning to think that The News is a sort of insidious culprit that plots to steal my sense of well-being.

My youngest son is a news hound. He reads 5 or 6 newspapers daily. He is so much fun to talk to. He knows about everything…technology, music, world events, history, art…and has very strong and fascinating opinions.  I always find myself wishing I were as well informed as he is. I would be so much more…interesting.

But at the same time, he often appears stressed. Sometimes when we’re discussing a political point or an environmental issue, he seems as if he’s fallen into a hole…despondent and without hope. I have actually said to him, “honey, you really need to stop reading so many newspapers”.

The question is, how does one establish some sort of equilibrium? What is my responsibility as a citizen of the world and what is my responsibility to myself and my personal psyche?

Bombs will continue to be dropped, innocents will go on suffering,  and we will persist in degrading our environment, whether I know about it immediately or not.  On the other hand, if all the world keeps its eyes open (including me), freedom might possibly be gained by hundreds of thousands of hopefuls in the middle-east and elsewhere, we might persist in finding a way for the suffering to nourish and heal themselves, and if we pay attention…really pay attention…we could find a way to exist on this planet without insisting that we destroy it in the process.

I don’t know what the answer is but as of today, as an experiment, I’m going on a mini-greve. The TV is off this morning. It’s going to stay off. My new strike from the news is going to mean I probably won’t be able to participate in meaty conversations about the current status of nuclear reactor #4, the question of where Gaddafi really is, why some dumb-ass French minister referred to the situation in Libya as a “crusade” (please, monsieur, think about the connotations of the word crusade for the Arab world), or the fascinating life of Elizabeth Taylor. It’s not that I don’t care about these things (this excludes the fascinating life of Elizabeth Taylor). And it’s not that I don’t have more than a little guilt about trying to surround myself with pretty flowers and soaring cherubs.

But for now, it’s going to have to be this way. And I will get back to writing my blog. While talking to my mom about this, she reminded me that in a world of bad news, there’s nothing wrong with a little humor. A break from the constant barrage of negative information that pummels us moment by moment is not necessarily a negation of the trials in the lives of others.  Light moments are essential when the weight of the world is slowing our steps and threatening to stop us in our tracks.

So I guess I’ll just continue doing what I do. As small and unimportant as it may be. And screw The News for the next….few weeks. Of course, just this moment, my New York Times headlines update came up on my email...and what did I do? Okay...I'm working on it. It will be interesting to see how I sleep in the next few weeks.

And it would also be interesting to know how you balance the weight of the world with your need for personal peace. Tell me.

Airport Blues

The week before I left France to return to Minnesota for Christmas, I posted an article entitled I’ll Be Home For Christmas…I Hope. It was actually a Monday Memory article that I had written the year before when I wasn’t sure if I would get home due to “French Bureaucracy” issues. I felt a little smug writing it because I knew that this year I had it going on and there wasn’t going to be a single problem. I had all my cards, papers and my ticket set for December 19^th.  In actuality, I arrived at the Minneapolis airport at 2:30 p.m. on December 24^th.  Next time I get all smug, would somebody please remind me what country I’m living in?

Yes this is a rant…it’s my blog and I can do what I want! 

On Saturday the 18^th when I wasn’t able to print my boarding pass, I tried to call Air France to find out what the problem was. After 2 hours on hold I was simply disconnected. I tried again and the same thing happened after an hour and a half of twiddling my thumbs.  I called the United States KLM (Air France, Delta and KLM are all partners and I use all 3 to get to Minnesota) customer service number and they informed me that there was a snowstorm in Amsterdam and flights were being cancelled. Hey, I get snowstorms! I’m from Minnesota. So they rebooked me…through Paris. But they said Air France insists that you go to the airport tomorrow to validate this ticket. We don’t know why, but they insist.

So Sunday I took the bus to Marseille, stood in line for 3 hours and validated a ticket that was…. already validated!  Okay, don’t get your undies in a bundle, Delana. You’ll be going home Monday.

Snow in Paris Monday. Flight cancelled. I spent another 3 hours on-line with Air France. Disconnected. Website locked up. Called United States. I was rebooked for Tuesday.

Tuesday, I arrived at the airport at 5:30 am, checked my luggage and the ticket agent asked if I wanted to check my carry on. I said no, I didn’t want to pay the fee for two pieces of luggage. He said, no worries, today it’s free…because…and then he leaned forward and whispered, “the security people are having a little strike…not to worry…but it will make things faster. And you’d better start through that line right now because it will probably be slower than normal”.

I skipped my coffee that I had so been looking forward to and got in line in front of the security door. I was one of the first. And I waited…. and waited. Finally, an announcement told us there was a “little problem with negotiations with the security company but not to worry, the planes would wait for us”. I sat down and began to plow through my French novel.

We began to pile up like ice on the shore of Lake Superior in February, everyone checking their watches and looking around for…. something. Finally, another announcement that went something like this (I was desperately trying to translate in my head).

“We’re sorry but the this gate will not be open.  The company that we hire to do security has gone on strike and we cannot reach an agreement. This is not our fault. It’s the fault of the security company. Everyone is asked to go to terminal 2, which does have security in place. Everyone in the airport will be going through security here so we know it will be difficult but it’s the best we can do. It’s not our fault”.

What he should have said at that point is, “good luck my little sheep. You are on your own now. Air France is no longer responsible”

The herd of sheep turned as if confronted by a pack of wolves and made off for the other terminal. And of course, because I was at the beginning of the line, I ended up at the end of the line at the other end.

And there, the masses waited, like the sheep that we were, with absolutely no shepard. Air France did not organize lines according to who was leaving first, did not have an agent posted, did not give us any information… and hundreds of people were gathered en mass trying to get through a 2 foot wide door. Oh excuse me; Air France did start passing out water. But the only answers anyone could get from the 2 souls in charge of making sure none of us died were, “I don’t know anything”, or “it’s not my job”.

About one hour into that wait, les bâtards who went on strike (after 3 days of delays because of snow and only days before Christmas, mind you) had the nerve to march by us with their union flags. Babies were crying, children were getting squished by the crowds and these idiots smirked at us as they marched by. I’m getting all heated up again just writing about it.

After several hours waiting, at first hoping they were telling the truth that the planes wouldn’t take off and finally realizing that even if they did wait I had now missed my connecting flight, word came through the line, like a game of telephone, that the flight to Charles Degaulle had taken off…. empty. As had the flight to Amsterdam and all other flights to Paris. Empty. As did the rest of the flights that morning. Which stopped more than 3,000 passengers in their tracks, a huge number of whom were like me; rebooked passengers just trying to make their way home for Christmas. And did we get this word from Air France? Of course not!  They were hiding.

After the debacle at the security gate I knew exactly where to go because I had spent hours there on Sunday. The line at the ticket/exchange desk.  The line that this day, I spent no less than 6 hours in because in spite Air France knowing this strike was forthcoming, that had no extra people on board. So the 18 windows were manned by 5 people…. who had to listen to, console, and exchange the tickets for hundreds of stranded passengers.  Nor did Air France have a soul at their customer service desk to answer simple questions.  They did  eventually pass out a flyer that said we should just go home and go on-line or call customer service. I had already been down that road a few times and knew exactly how it was going to work. I stayed put.

So here’s the kicker, after becoming best friends with several couples, playing games with their children, and breaking bread with them (oh yes, Air France began worrying about our imminent deaths again and handed out more water and croissants) it was my turn at the desk. Yeppers, 6 hours later! Right around that moment a group of people approached the desk on my left and started shouting and stomping and decrying the bad treatment of Air France who hadn’t gotten them on a plane and had ignored them too. I don’t know where they came from but they definitely acted as if they knew this manifestation thing inside and out. They caused such a ruckus that the riot police arrived in full gear.

I did my part by flashing them evil looks and making nasty gestures. As far as I was concerned, they weren’t accomplishing anything and they could just get in line like the rest of us.  And they were delaying my turn, damn it! And just as I was opening my mouth to say to the ticket agent “please Madame, help me get on a plane before Christmas”, all 5 people behind the Air France desk got up and fled. They were “fearful” is what I was told. All they would say to my desperate, shouted questions aimed at their backs was “there’s nothing we can do. Check the website or call.”

Yeah, okay and while you’re having coffee in the back room, I’ll just stay out here and help the police deal with the rioters. You just go on and be fearful…go on…really, I completely understand. And then I’ll call Air France who will be happy to help me!  Big Weenies.

I trekked back out in the rain with all my baggage, dejected and weary and hopped the bus back to Aix. Wet and near tears, I called the U.S. customer service number and spent another 4 hours on hold. Air France passed me to KLM, KLM passed me to Delta and while waiting for Delta to DO SOMETHING and listening to the (at this point) obnoxious hold music, my friend Claire came over and announced she was going to remove the evil eye that had obviously been cast upon me by somebody.  She performed a little ceremony while we continued to enjoy the hold music and as we sat down for a cup of tea, me now free of the evil eye, Doreen, a ticket agent from Delta stationed in Chisholm, Minnesota, got on the line.  And I didn’t have to be a hard ass and “take no shit” as Claire had advised. Doreen was from my hood. She was “Minnesota Nice” as we say and knew all about customer service. And Doreen got me on a plane on Christmas Eve, routed through Amsterdam, so I could see my kids on Christmas. And she extended my ticket by 4 days to make up for my loss of time with them. All with a smile (I could hear it), a little chitchat about places we knew in common, and…. a result!

What’s the lesson learned here? Nothing I shouldn’t have already known. Air France sucks.

Okay, I feel better now.

Le Grève…or How to Get A Day Off School

I don’t have to go to school today…na na ne boo boo! I didn’t have to get up early and trek the two miles to the University because today we’re in the throes…again…of the French national sport…Le Grève or The Strike.

The French are known for their passion for striking. Government workers are the most frenetic. This includes postal workers, public school employees and utility workers. Transportation workers are equally enthusiastic and even students get into the act.

There has been unrest for months now and things started winding up Friday.  I had an appointment at 9 am. Sharp. I could not be late. I arrived at the bus stop at 8:15 in order to catch the bus at 8:20 and get to my appointment 20 minutes early. I waited for bus number 3. It didn’t show. Bus 4 passed; followed by bus 1, then number 23…then another number 4…and another number 1!  There should be a number 3 in between each of these! No number 3. I’m checking my watch as I pace and others are just leaving. Finally when the third number 4 stopped, I jumped on and asked the driver why I’d been waiting 40 minutes for number 3. He said he wasn’t sure but perhaps it was because of the manifestation.

So I’m standing there, wondering what this all means and why only bus number 3 is on some sort of strike. Finally I asked a lady standing next to me, who also appeared late…but not nearly as worried about it as I (the French don’t ever seem to worry very much about being late). She said, in fact, the students at the junior high (a college in French) down the road were holding a manifestation (a public demonstration) and they had blocked the main road that travels the periphery of the city; the road bus 3 has to travel on its route.  She said they had completely blocked the road for hours, this was the second day and they would probably do it again tomorrow.

“What are they mad about?” I asked.

She replied that, of course, the manifestation was in response to the government’s plan to raise the minimum retirement age from 60 to 62.

Oh sure, when I was 13, I could think of nothing else but my looming retirement and exactly what age I would be before I got to enjoy it.  It was on my mind night and day. I was such a wreck!

In fact, the pimply-faced little hormones-in-overdrive are strikers in training.  I think this was not a manifestation…it was an internship!  And who doesn’t want a few mornings off of school anyway?

So what’s the fuss? The French government has voted to raise the minimum retirement age from 60 to 62 and move back the age of full-benefit retirement from 65 to 67. If I’ve read things correctly, that’s exactly the policy in the U.S.

A huge deficit and enormous expenses burden the French government because it’s an extraordinarily top-heavy government. Declining birth rates are leaving a very few to pay for the retirement of many. Sound familiar?

And in fact, the French retirement is longer and benefits more expensive because not only can they retire earlier but they also live longer. According to the C.I.A. 2010 estimates, France has the 8^th highest life-expectancy rate in the world. The U.S. is 49th…just above Albania!  In case you’re wondering, Macau is first. Ever heard of it?

So it would follow that something needs to be done. Right? Not if French workers have anything to do with it.

The strangest thing about French strikes is they are the first “words” in the process of negotiations. In France, the opposing sides do not sit down, discuss, attempt to pound out an agreement, sit some more, pound some more, and then if all else fails…call a strike. The workers strike as a way of opening talks. And…they strike for each other. If the teachers are upset that they are expected to do more work for the same pay, the railroad workers/ air traffic controllers/ post office employees (pick one or all of the above) become their buddy-strikers.

Sometimes it’s just really hard to get anywhere or get anything done around here!

Last month, on the way to Marseille, my friend Claire and I nearly got caught up in a 30-mile traffic jam on the autoroute. Apparently, the carnival companies, (the people that travel from village festival to village festival with their tilt-a-whirls, ring toss games, and smelly stuffed animals), were upset that nobody was hiring them. (This is of course because these are tough times… the little villages ain’t got no money) So they took to the freeway, piled their trucks up 3 across and miles deep and stopped all traffic to the country’s second major city.  For hours! Well that should really solve the problem!  I’ll bet the little village boards were just scrambling to see who could be the first hire the carnies for next year. Sort of as an apology.

Today apparently I’m benefiting from this free-for-all form of liberty and equality because a general strike as been called. Nobody is really sure whom this might involve and I’m not all that happy about it. I like school.  My professor was going to have class anyway because, as she told us, we paid for it. But since 

1. Most of the professors will be on strike as well as the students...

2. Any of the students who need to take the bus into town won’t get there...

3. It will take her 2 hours to get to work because the narrow peripheral roads will be jammed with the cars of those who normally use public transportation...

4. The electric workers will most likely shut off the University’s electricity...

...we decided to add 30 minutes each day to our class until we make up the time.

So I’m sitting here wondering what sort of strike I should go on today. I could schedule a sit-down outside of the driver’s license office until they let me have the license they’ve refused me. I could stage a hunger strike in front of the prefecture until they finally give me my second year carte de sejour which I filled out all the paper work for in April. I even could picket the office of Securite Sociale because they denied my student health insurance. They said I lied about my income (in fact they inverted the conversion rates from dollars to euros and thus inflated my income…their mistake not mine). I could do all of that I suppose. But there will probably be no one in those offices anyway. Because of that darned buddy system.