Close Just Ain't Good Enough

"Oh my god, I think I called the mayor at prostitute this morning!"

These were the first words out of my friend Tenley's mouth when she came to visit the other day. Tenley used to be my neighbor here in Aix but last fall she moved up to a tiny village in the Luberon. And I'm not kidding when I say tiny. Four hundred people and not even a bakery. How does one live without a bakery, I ask?

Sorry, I digress. And in the first paragraph, no less. It's just that I get so upset about that bakery business!

Anyway, as she drove down here to Aix, she was ruminating over the conversation she'd had with Madame mayor that morning and it dawned on her what she may have said. But she isn't sure. And neither am I.

I'm just NEVER sure. I'm not afraid to talk and not afraid to try.  Generally. But language screw-ups are part of daily life when you aren't a native speaker and are often just too funny. Certainly there are those times when you get the word completely wrong but usually it's words that are just...so...close.  Like the time I was on a date and the monsieur pointed out to me, kindly I thought, that there was a little fleck of something just under my nose. I had a little scab there and I said brightly, "Oh don't worrry, it's just a booger". I used the word crotte (crotte de nez is a booger; crotte de chien is dog poop) instead of croute (scab). I didn't realized my mistake until I saw the look on his face which was something between dismay and disgust. Crotte….croute…close, but not close enough.

This past weekend, a team of masseuses and I volunteered our services at a charity regatta in Marseille. Beforehand, I was trying to describe our project to a friend. I explained that we would be massaging teams of…well, this is where it got tricky because I wanted to say 'teams of sailors' and the word for sail is voile. Instead, I said  'teams of voleurs'. WRONG! We were not going to massage teams of thieves. I corrected myself and said "teams of violeurs". WRONG again! Nor did we have any plans to massage teams of rapists. I never did arrive at the word I needed because it apparently doesn't exist. The word sailor does not even have the word "sail" in it! We eventually got to the point but not without a lot of both confusion and hilarity. Close but no cigar.


My friend Doreen and I were laughing about this story and she recounted her latest horror. She is German and is but is also considered fluent in both French and English.  But fluency doesn't make her immune to these faux pas. She works for a distributor of grains, seeds and other health-foody sorts of things. She was speaking to a customer last week to tell him that his shipment would be late because they didn't have enough of the algae he needed in order to fill his order. She kindly assured him that it would only be a few days before the manufacturer could produce his full half-ton of fetuses and she would send them to him directly.  Fucus...fetus....I mean they're almost the same, aren't they?

But often, it's not a question of getting the words wrong, it's simply a question of pronunciation. There are some words that sound so similar that I can't hear the difference much less pronounce it. Like the words dessous (underneath) and dessus (on top of). Opposite meanings but they sound exactly the same to me. It has something to do with the horrible "u" sound that we don't have in English. I've been tutored on this. I'm supposed to make the long e sound at the same time I'm forming my mouth into a tight "o" while sticking out my lips. Hey, you try that! Then pat your head and rub your stomach at the same time.

Last year after going to see a movie, I announced to my friend that I had spent a half-an-hour in line just to get in. He looked at me with astonishment and asked me to repeat what I'd said. I said it again with authority. And then he began to laugh…and laugh….and I knew I'd done it again, whatever it was this time. My sentence was "j'ai passé un demi heure dans une queue". It seems to me this sentence is correct.  But apparently what I really said was the word cul, which in common language means ass, and not the donkey kind. Yes, I know, they look completely different when written but they sound exactly the same to me.  The second, however, involves the aforementioned convoluted mouth/lip formation. Which I obviously haven't yet mastered. This explains why the 3 elderly ladies at the end of the line that day did not respond well when I asked if they were the end of the ass.

The word queue can also mean tail, or dick. Cul can also mean porn or screwing, among other things. Both words, with all their meanings, are truly useful in conversation. But not in MY conversation. You will never, ever hear me mention my cat's tail and I now wait in a file d'attente.

We still don't know what Tenley actually said to the mayor but they're still talking so apparently either there was no insult, or people in her village are still talking to her just to see what she'll say next. My bets are on the latter.

P.S. I want to take this opportunity to wish my beautiful mother a very Happy Birthday. Je t'aime Maman. xo

Window Licking Good

I've come to the conclusion that 3 pairs of shoes for a week in Paris are not enough. I was really so proud of myself for keeping the number down. But these old hoofs are sore and though I've been re-shod several times, I'm still feeling lame. 

Sore feet led me to peruse the shoestores in my neighborhood today. Of course I would be doing this anyway but sore feet seem as good an excuse as any. As I wandered, I came  across a teeny-tiny shop on Rue des Entrepreneurs. A wee bit small for a shoe store but you know what they say about small packages!

I first noted these (not for me, of course but good looking nonetheless) in a chocolate brown.

 Then I noticed the women's shoes in the same window that came in a multitude of colors that caught my eye....but also in varying degrees of chocolate brown. 

I'm not sure if you're getting the picture here....so let me clarify.

Have you figured it out yet? 

Yeppers...I'd landed in a chocolate shop. With my mouth open for all kinds of obvious reasons. This little unassuming shop in the 15 arrondissement and off the beaten track was a feast for the all the senses. 

In case you're wondering, this is what one does with a chocolate shoe.

 But the folks at Jicara make all sorts of containers for their fine chocolates.

Form follows function is an underlying principal in modern architecture and design. In this case, I'm not sure which follows what!

Here in France, instead of window shopping we "lecher les vitrines" or lick the windows. Of course, we don't really....except maybe in this case!

Jicara Chocolat

91 Rue des Entrepreneurs

75015 Paris

Have a great weekend everyone. Gotta go. I've got more windows to lick.

The Cerveau is a Terrible Thing to Waste

It's happened! It has finally happened. Actually, it's probably occurred before but I just don't remember. 


Drum roll please.......I dreamed in French!!


I normally do not remember my dreams. But this morning, in the hazy space between slumber and and the light of day, I had a dream in this language that I struggle with daily. Enfin!


It was not an all important dream...as in, say, the Dream of Martin Luther King. It's only real importance is that it proved to me that I've sort of arrived. It also, however, proved to me how little of my brain I really use in my waking moments.


Yesterday, thanks to a friend of a friend, I went to look at a car. It has been 3 years since I've had wheels. It never seemed all that important and a car is also a luxury I can't afford. But I'm starting to get really tired of depending on the bus or others for my transportation and more and more often I'm needing to get around for business reasons.  Last week, after waiting almost 3 years with my name on a Grand List, I finally received the right to rent a parking spot here in Aix. And it's just behind my apartment. A stroke of good luck that I'm taking as a sign. Now I have two weeks to claim it. And I need to have a car...as in OWN a car with a registration in my name...to secure the spot. So begins the search.


Because I only have 1,000 euros to spend (yeah, I know, that's about what I spent on my 1965 Volkswagon van in 1981!),  I'm looking in odd places. Like the giant garage in Marseille that pulls in wrecks, stolen cars, and other insurance problems and resells them or uses them for parts. Sometimes with cars like these, there are issues. The first issue with this car is that it does not have a registration. They are hoping to get it from the insurance company but they're not sure if this will happen. So I'm waiting. After that, it will have to pass inspection. 


Back to the dream. I was having a telephone conversation (in French) with the guy at the garage concerning the car. Apparently there were problems with the it during inspection.


He said to me, "Elle etait pollueuse (pronounced pole-use)".

Here's the first proof that I use only a pea sized portion of my brain. Not only did he use the feminine form for the car (elle), a problem I can never get straight in my waking, stupid mind, but the complement (pollueuse) agreed with the subject, meaning it was also feminine. How the hell did I do that?


But here's the kicker. In the dream, I said to him in French,   " Pollueuse....I don't understand. What does this word mean?"


At this point, my brain found this situation so absurd it woke me up. It woke me up asking, "what in the world does pollueuse mean? And whatever it means, how come I can dream a word that I don't even know during normal, pea-brain hours?"  This is simply bizarre.


So I jumped out of bed, grabbed my translator, and looked it up:

 pollueur (m), pollueuse (f), ADJ: polluting

What he was telling me is the car didn't pass inspection because it was polluting.


I'm hoping I'm not a premonitional dreamer. I really want that car. I'm also thinking there must be a way for me to learn the conditional and subjunctive verb conjugations in my sleep. That seems to be the only place where I have any brain power. But in celebration of this new "dreaming in French" thing, I officially changed my Facebook status to knowing two languages; English and French. There was not a particular section for being able to speak a language only in your sleep!

Have a great weekend. Please come back and visit on Monday. I'm going to be unveiling my new webstore and offering a give-away. Nobody wants to miss a give-away!

Rabbits and Rats

I got up early this morning after 3 1/2 hours of sleep, in a rotten mood. Crabby Appleton...rotten to the core sort of rotton!  Monsieur Rabbit, who lives just below me, and his amour, have spent the last several days and nights, moaning and groaning in sexual ecstasy. I have written about these two before and you can read about it here if you feel the need. The problem is, their hormones and pheromones…and loud moans… seem to be rolling at full force around 3 am. Always. And at 1 in the afternoon...and 6 at pm. This seems to work nicely around his schedule as a musician. It does not work nicely around my schedule as a human being. She has been absent for quite awhile and life has been serene. Well, SHE’S BACK!

Last night around midnight they started a discussion. I can never hear him but she...SHE has a big, fat mouth and doesn't seem to care what she says and who hears it. My friend Holly, who has been staying with me this week, was experiencing this “group living” phenomenon up close and personal for the first time and because she can understand French better than I, came up to tell me that The Mouth, was itching for a fight. I let her know that this can only mean one thing… the inevitable reconciliation. But I was placated a bit because they seemed to be starting earlier than usual. Au contraire!  After 3 hours of high volume “discussion”, they made up. LOUDLY, as usual.

As this was night number two of no sleep, I came downstairs this morning...just plain pissed off! I pushed my massage table over on the floor (this is an explosive sound) and then kicked around a few things just so they would know I was serious. And because I was so crabby, I kicked things around some more...just to feel better. Holly and I loudly made fun of her groans and moans, hoping she would hear us, while we made our much needed coffee. But the coffee was of no help and I got no rejoinder from them. And I think I really wanted one. I was also itching for a fight.

Then it was off to the prefecture to pick up this year's carte de sejour. In my cantankerous state of mind, just the idea of going to the prefecture irritated me and I armed myself for (the usual) battle.

I had received a letter while I was in the states that said my card had arrived and designated this year’s price.  There is a weird, antiquated system here in France where one has to buy tax stamps to pay for the carte de sejour and other such documents.  You have to buy the proper amount of stamps and the correct type of stamp for whatever is being paid for. These are available at the tobacco shops, so it's a bit of a process and makes for a few extra steps.

Upon my arrival at the prefecture,  I happened to land at the window of Monsieur Willard (the gray rat) who had been my nemesis during my first application in 2009. I told him I lost my letter and needed him to remind me how many stamps I needed to buy to pick up my new card. I waited for him to tell me,“no madame, you can’t have your card without the letter. You will have to reapply and then run around the periphery of the town in under 10 minutes with your feet tied together, at which point you must eat 3 pounds of tripe washed down with 2 litres of straight pastis, then we’ll need the original birth certificate of your 2^nd cousin’s great uncle, translated into French by an offical translator and if all goes well you’ll get your card by December 2013.

Instead, he smiled at me…let me repeat….he smiled at me, made a little bit of small talk, told me that lucky for me, this year it was only going to be 85 euros and then wrote down everything I needed on a piece of paper. I took off to buy my stamps and returned immediately to take advantage of the small crowds this morning.

I ended up at his window for the second time. All I’m saying is…what a difference a few years make! He again greeted me with a smile, chatted a little more about this and that and then informed me that he thought my photo held a striking resemblance to Melina Mercouri. He explained that she was a Greece actress popular in the 60's, nominated for an Oscar, married to so and so, her son was so and so, and she became the minister of culture in Greece in the 80’s. Not that I give a hoot nor did I know who he was talking about, but I was so stunned he was actually chatting that I just wanted him to keep going! (Now that I've seen her photo, I AM flattered, though I see no resemblance) So we talked as he did all his stamping, sticking, and paper arranging. Wow!  What happened to the gray, surley, sluggish, rodent that had made that first application so nasty?

I really think these government workers must play some sort of game with the “debutantes” for their own amusement.  As in “lets see how difficult we can make this process for the newbies. We’ll call it a test to see just how badly they REALLY want to live in France”.

As I left, he said, “Goodbye Dear Madamoiselle Delana. See you next year”. I guess I’ve earned my stripes! And I didn’t even have to try to pull my usual trick of bringing chocolate chip cookies!

Needless to say, I skipped out of there, copulating bunny neighbors, major fatigue, and crummy mood completely dismissed from my head... feeling more like Tom Terrific than Crabby Appleton. Sometimes it’s the little things that make all the difference!

Telephone Terrors

I actually wrote this in November for the newspaper. I've got a visitor here right now and haven't the time to write something fresh. However,  this terror remains fresh...so it will work!

Ten minutes ago, my phone rang. My phone doesn’t ring all that often, and when it does, the name of the caller pops up because, of course, I know them. When a strange number comes through, I generally ignore it. Okay, first I go into in insta-freeze because I know that this means if I answer, I will have to speak French...on the phone... with somebody I probably don’t know and who is unaware that my telephone abilities are the merde! (It also brings on some bad memories of a time last year when I was threatened on the phone by a stranger) Telephone conversations  are the most difficult. It’s even harder than listening to the news on the radio because people speak rapidly and generally more street language. 

So this was the conversation…translated of course.

“Hi Delana…this is _______”.

“Who?”

“______.”

“I’m so sorry, I have a difficult time on the telephone. This is who?”

________. The friend of ________. Do you remember me?

“No, because I still didn’t catch your name. I’m so sorry. Can you repeat it, please?”

“_________”

Then follows a minute of completely incomprehensible French. It seemed that perhaps his name was Frederik and he might possibly have been a friend of my old friend Simon. It’s possible... except I didn’t remember anybody named Frederik…at all. And, in fact, I’m condensing this conversation. This ball was tossed back and forth many more times!

“OH! OKAY. I’ve got it now!”

Probably a dumb move, pretending to know who this mysterious caller was. But I was just too embarrassed to admit that I simply COULD NOT understand.

“So I’m just calling to see what’s new?”

So what do you tell a person that you’re pretending to know, what is new? When do you suppose the last time was that I had a conversation with this person? What might we have talked about? Do we know each other well? If we do, I’d better act like it. If we don’t, I should probably not be talking to him.

“Well, I’m a student at the University now”.

That remark just revealed to possible stranger danger that I believe I haven’t seen him since at least September. I crossed my fingers and waited to offend.

“Really? What are you taking?” (whew! Good stab in the dark!)

“French of course. And you, what are you doing these days?” (I’m bound to get some sort of clue from this question)

One more Bad Idea. Another minute or two of gibberish and I understood one word. Internship. Okay, probably somebody young. Maybe an old classmate from last year’s course.  And I’m hearing a few speech patterns that seem remotely familiar.

“Oh yes? Tell me more.” (Eventually, this has got to come to me. Please give me some clue, some name, some event, something! Of course he probably already has… at least 10 times… but I’m too inadequate to understand)

Another several paragraphs follow and you guessed it, nothing!

“Listen, we don’t learn how to talk on the phone at the University. I’m horrible at it. Perhaps it would be better if we text. I can understand written words much better.”

“Ah, okay…blah, blah , blah....Skype blah, blah, blah, MSN blah blah blah blah”

I understood Skype. Yes, Skype!  We can chat online on Skype!

So I proceed to text a perfect stranger my Skype address, just so I can figure out who the hell this person is. His name comes through requesting permission to talk. Ah…it’s Cedric! Of course, Cedric, the friend of Simon, who I ran into and spoke with briefly this summer, who made me oysters 2 years ago before he moved to Argentina for a year. Who is all of 33 years old and obviously still… interested? My body relaxes, I get comfortable in my chair, and I begin typing in French.

Delana:  Cedric! How are you these days? Now repeat everything you said to me on the phone…just so I’m sure that I got it right. Tell me everything that’s new.

Et pourquoi pas? (And why not?) I don’t even know the word for cougar in French!

Speaking of fesses

Okay....I'm done! Finished! I can't take it anymore! I think I have now qualified for the Bloggers Most Injured list. This is now how I pictured my name going down in infamy.

Last Wednesday, I decided it was high time to re-do my blog page. I had no particular ideas in mind and I began to play around. Trouble is...I pushed one of those damned wrong buttons and lost my old template. Thus, I was committed.

You need to understand, I'm a complete idiot at this stuff....html....code....design. I only know what I've had to learn so far...and since I haven't had to use this extensive knowledge for at least a year, it had flown from my brain like the french word for keyboard (I know it starts with the letter "c"), the password for my bank account, and the rules for every single card game I've ever been taught.

So...I sat in front of the damed computer, typing on that thing that starts with the letter "c", for 14 hours. Yeppers, 14 hours in my newly-made bathrobe, doing nothing but struggling with a dumb blog page.  I did finally eat something about 10 pm and at midnight I opened a bottle of wine. Which is probably why at 1:30 a.m., I closed up shop. Satisfied. At one point, late in the marathon, I thought I had sat on a pin, probably left behind in the bathrobe-that-had-the-day-before-been-a-sewing-project. I couldn't find it anywhere within the folds of my wonderful, new, fuzzy robe and so, continued on with my project.

The next day, I had a pain in the ass. Okay, actually two. The first was the fact that, by the light of day, I hated my new blog page. The second was, I had an actual pain in my ass. A big, excruciating pain in my hinder. Okay, it was really the top of the back of my thigh but these days the two seem to be one in the same. And when I sat down...well....that wasn't really possible!

During the course of the day, a little black and blue mark developed. I know this because I actually had to yank down my drawers and show my injury to a friend (this is, I'll have you know, downright degrading). She thought maybe it was an insect bite and we let it go at that.

It had improved...a little... by Friday but was still really painful. My friend Claire insisted I make a doctor's appointment for Saturday morning and I decided to placate her. Friday night I spoke with my mom and mentioned this little problem and by the time I was done with that conversation, I was sure I was in the midst of some sort of blood clot crisis and I skipped a party so as not to dislodge said clot and die of a pulmonary embolism (this is why one should never discuss minor health problems with one's mother).

I went to the doc on Saturday, downed my drawers again and said, "mes fesses sont mal. Je crois que c'est un probleme avec un vein. Comment vous les trouvez?" (I don't know if this is proper french....I never know. When I came home I ran that one through the translator and it came out, "My buttocks are evil. I think it's a problem with a vein. How do you find them"?). At which point he laughed and said in French, "now this is a special situation".

Yeah, really special. Hysterical.

After a little prodding and pain, he announced it was a broken surface vein and I had practically no chance of dying from it. He did however, tell me to get off my ass. Which I have been doing. Pretty much.

Today it's much better and I decided to re-do my re-do. I don't know if I'm satisfied. But I'm not going to sit here long enough to worry too much about it. However, I welcome any comments from ANYBODY who knows ANYTHING about this sort of thing.

And back to the subject of fesses. I still haven't gotten to to say "tu les trouves jolies mes fesses?"* which was the subject of a recent post and which I've since found out is a famous quote (here in France, anyway) by Brigitte Bardot in the 1956 movie And God Made Woman. I really had that line on my top ten list of things to accomplish in the near future. And I pictured the moment....oh yes....

`

But, sadly, my first fesses conversation did not go according to plan.

*roughly translated to "do you find my bottom pretty?"

Charm School

In a post this past fall, I mentioned that I was learning to charm and be charmed here in France. I suppose that seems like an odd thing to say, but the fact is, charm is a revered art form in French culture. I’m not sure if they look at is an art, but I have come to think of it that way.

The French have a certain something, I don’t know what it is, that is completely different from what I’m accustomed to. They are not afraid to turn on the charm. Not afraid to be laughed at by their peers because they said something slightly flowery and over the top. Not afraid to offend women by complimenting them or looking at them with admiration. Mostly because the women seem to expect it and practice the same captivating techniques on men. It’s normal and happens everywhere, including the workplace.

Being charming is not the same thing as being a drageur or womanizer/skirt chaser/player. France has its share of schmucks as much as the next country. But this je ne sais quoi seems to be just a part of this world that I’m living in.  I’m not even sure how to explain it so I’ll give you some examples.

Last year a friend had a small party for me on my birthday. I wore a dress and my red high heels because I had NO crown to wear on this momentous occasion. I was sitting on a stool having a conversation with my friend Pierre when he began to shake his head and finally said, “C’est dommage”.

I asked him, "What is too bad?"

He said, “tu es éduqué à mort”. You are educated to death.

Of course, I didn’t know what the he was talking about and he explained that each time I laughed, I unconsciously pulled my skirt down over my knees.  And he thought that was just such an awful shame.

He wasn’t chatting me up.... or beginning one of THOSE uncomfortable conversations. He was just doing what Frenchmen do. No harm intended and certainly none taken.

Last fall I was at the market in Marseille with my sister. We hadn’t had sugar in at least an hour and we stopped by the table of a bisquit  (a sort of French cookie) vendor. I asked him a few questions about a certain treat that caught our eye and after his explanation we bought a couple.

As he was putting our caloric indulgence in a little bag, he said to me (all the following conversations were in French which is, of course, part of the charm), “You speak French very well and your accent is charming.”  Well we all know this isn’t true and I told him so, but he was not to be deterred.

He said,  “If you will permit me, I must tell you that you have the most beautiful eyes. Absolutely beautiful”.

I smiled (most likely batted my eyelashes) and thanked him for saying such a nice thing.

He said, “it may be nice but it’s also true”.

He then picked up two bisquits and put them in our bag. He said, “a gift from me. Bisquits made from the flower of the oranges, especially for the flowers (meaning us). Wow! I can’t say that I’ve ever been likened to a flower!

This past summer I got on the bus one day to be greeted by a smiling driver. I tried to run my ticket through the machine, but it wouldn’t take it. I smoothed it out and tried again. Finally the bus driver said, “slowly. Go very slowly. The machine is very romantic”. And then he beamed at me again.

I was walking home from the University recently and reading a brochure about a belly dancing class I wanted to take. I passed a table full of men gathered around an outdoor table and one of them said something to me. I looked up, apologized for not understanding (after all, I was walking, reading and most likely chewing gum…ALL at the same time!), told him I speak only a little French and if he talked VERY slowly, I MIGHT be able to understand. He repeated himself, slowly, and said, “if you continue to walk while you read you might just fall…. into my arms …and I would like that very much. When I laughed and smiled and told him that was a nice compliment, he asked if I might join him and his friends for champagne.  And when I (charmingly) turned him down, he smiled broadly and told me it was his loss and I was très charmant.

This must be something French, like understanding wine. Whatever it is, each time it happens, it just makes me feel good. Charm for charm’s sake is a good thing. And I’m practicing with all my might.

In October I was at the office of Securité Sociale, trying to figure out how I might be able to get health insurance now that I’m a student (after all, doesn’t college life involve at least one or two beer drinking accidents? I need to be prepared!).  When I was finished and trying to put my 17 different documents that I had needed back in some sort of order, I was chatting with an older gentleman who was also waiting. At the end of the conversation, he told me I was ravissante. I smiled broadly and said thank you and then came home and looked up what he had said because I had no idea (someday this problem is going to get me in a heap of trouble).  Now, he could have possibly said I’m a kidnapper…but he’s French…and I’m betting that he was telling me I was charming/ delightful or maybe even possibly ravishing…. or something like that. And that sure as hell made the trip to a French government office a little easier to take.

I wish everyone a Joyeuse St. Valentin. Did anything charming happen to you today?

The silhouette and more cool clip art from The Graphics Fairy

Daphnée Does Paris

Planning a trip to Paris soon? Language woes got you down? Never fear, Daphnée's here! Yeah, I guess I'm advertising (unbeknownst to anybody who would ever think to pay me for it)  but I spotted this new I-Phone/I-Pad application today. My old blackberry doesn't qualify and I hope to own a Kindle (mom.....) rather than an I Pad....but I did view all the trailers and these French lessons might be a fun way to learn a little French.  Click here to go to the web page. 

  

Actress Anne-Sophie Franck of the film Inglorious Bastards stars as Daphnée in the series, and it covers everything from shopping to dining, nightlife to ....a different type of nightlife. The entire series is only $2.99 and can be downloaded from the apps store.

I have once or twice had the opportunity to say "tu me fais mal!" However, I have never, ever gotten to say "tu les trouves jolie mes fesses?" Now that I know how to say it....well... I gotta go!

Lingerie questions....answered

This afternoon I browsing through one of my favorite deal sites, Vente-Privee, and thought I'd check out some new lingerie offerings. Hey, it's high end stuff at a fraction of the regular price, and I will NEVER pay 150 euros for a bra. NEVER!  Now, when shopping on-line one has to be sure, so I clicked on details where I found a complete description of this particular black lace number. There were a few words that I didn't fully understand (hey, I can buy carrots and sign up for health insurance but this is learn as you go!) so I ran the description through a translater. This is what I now know about French lingerie thanks to Google Translate:

Balconette bra underwired

Moulded cups

Adjustable straps

Contrasting embroidered tulle on top caps

Closed with staples

Don't ever let it be said that this blog isn't jam packed full of good information! 

I’ll Be Home for Christmas…I Hope

My last Monday memory article. Last year around this time I returned to the United States for the Christmas Holiday and when I returned in January I started my blog. So from here on out it's all in real time!  This article was written one year ago this week as I was preparing to return home. I am now in the process of getting ready for another return trip...for 4 weeks. I'm excited. And there is no doubt we will have a white Christmas. Apparently the worst snowstorm in 20 years blew it's way through my old stomping ground leaving up to 20 inches of snow in it's wake. And tonight the temperatures are supposed to bottom out at around -15 F (-26 C) with a windchill of -25F (-31C). The snow I love, the temperatures I detest! And I'm leaving France just when my rosemary is blooming so nicely! I had to check the headlines from my old hometown newspaper. Click here  if you want to cool off!

Five days and counting. On Sunday I’m on my way back to the U.S. for Christmas and I’m running around like a madwoman trying to get everything done. What clothes will I need?... do I even have clothes for a Minnesota winter?...is there room for Christmas gifts?... what Christmas gifts?... damn, I need to take care of that!... is there enough money in my bank account for rent while I’m gone?...find someone to take any perishable food and beg same person to water my plants…. check to see that tickets are in order…… make hair, dental and other such appointments in the U.S….  take care of rental insurance problem…and finally, make sure once I leave the country, that I’ll be allowed back in. Right now, that is the biggest problem on my list.

Last week I trekked back to the local prefecture to finally pick up my permanent Carte de Sejour (residency card). I began the process last January and I’ve written several times about the problems involved in obtaining this little treasure.

In May I finally got my hands on it…well, it was actually a temporary card but I was told my real one would be processed and send to the local prefecture in Aix. My temporary card was good for 3 months and after checking at the prefecture several times for my “real card” I was finally told there was a back up in Marseille and they would reissue me another temporary. That second card expired the end of November so off I went again.

The gentleman at the window, who truly resembles a gray rat and whom I have come to detest, looked at me in mild disbelief and said,  “You can’t have your card because your address has changed”. Oui, monsieur, in fact it’s changed 6 times since we first met but I’ve always informed you of the changes.

“I need proof of your new address”, he told me and gave me their hours of business so I could return with my rental papers another day.

I high-tailed it out of there and returned within 10 minutes with said document. I produced this paper for the combative little rodent and he looked at me again with dismay and said “ you can’t have the card without your medical certificate”.

“What medical certificate? In all the times that I’ve come here to make inquiries, no one has mentioned a medical certificate! This is the first time! It wasn’t on the list you gave me and nobody mentioned it to me in Marseille or here!” All of this in broken French, mind you.

He gruffly told me that was not his problem, teased me by waving my actual card in front of my face (if there wasn’t glass between us I would have grabbed it out of his greedy little paws and run like hell) and repeated that he could not give it to me without that certificate. He also informed me, to my dismay, that if I left France without that card, I would not be allowed back in because my regular Visa has now expired. C’est tout! He gave me several numbers to call in Marseille and I was dismissed.

C’est un grand probleme! Because I’m going back to the United States for Christmas and I’ll be damned if Monsieur I-Hate-My-Job-And-I-Hate-You-Too is going to stop me.

I tried the numbers I was given for days and it was impossible to get through. After another visit to the local prefecture with a French friend to help me make sure I had my information right, I decided that I needed to just get my body to this mysterious office in Marseille and beg for an appointment to obtain the certificate.

I hopped a bus early in the morning, landed in Marseille, finally found the proper metro station to get me where I needed to go and actually arrived at the Office of Strangers by 9:30 am. I marched past all the people waiting, went to the desk and told them in French what my problem was. They were actually very nice and called somebody on the phone that spoke English to help me (my French is obviously still lacking!). I regurgitated the details (finally in English), told the voice on the other end when I was leaving and that I must get this medical certificate before I go.

Of course she told me this was impossible…there just wasn’t enough time. I wasn’t going to give up and told her I had followed all the rules to the letter, done everything they’d asked me to do, and because of their ineptitude (I was nicer that that) I was now in a huge pickle.  She interrupted several times with more “not possibles” and several tsking noises. I told her this is an EMERGENCY! I also told her that if she could actually see me at that moment, she would know that I was on my knees, begging for her help.

I got an appointment for the next week, which is tomorrow!

That leaves me one day to get back to the prefecture here in Aix with a satisfied smirk on my face, medical certificate in hand,  and politely ask Monsieur “Willard” for my card. At least I hope that’s how it will go.

So my open bag is on the floor and I’m beginning to faire mes valises. All I really care about is wrapping my arms around my boys, one of whom I haven’t seen in a year, scratching my dog in that soft place just under his chin, laughing with my sister, helping my mother finish redecorating her house (an endless process), sharing a meal and good stories with my friends back home and celebrating my favorite season with snow, Christmas carols and the people I love surrounding me.

Merry Christmas to all. 

Crazy snow photo compliments of Sonja Gilbertson