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!

Winter Wonderlands and Craft Projects

It's spring in Aix en Provence and Sunday afternoon the world was out and about soaking up the 55 degree (13 C) temperatures and taking up a little sun. A far cry from the temperature in Minnesota the day I left....-20 F (-29 C)!

People here are incredulous when I tell them what sort of temperatures we live with in the northern midwest. What exactly do people DO in Minnesota and Wisconsin in the winter?  How do people entertain themselves when surrounded by sub-zero temperatures and mounds of snow? It's not so bad really...you have to roll with the weather and not fight it. Walks in the woods are fun...allow time for rest, wear the right clothes and make sure the dog is wearing boots!

Walks along the lake are wonderful. Colder than bloody hell...but beautiful. This is Lake Superior which rarely, rarely freezes over so you have to walk along it, not on it.

Sometimes we have to help others in need. As someone did for me when my car broke down in -10 (-23 C) temperatures. Or when someone's plane lands on a frozen lake, breaks a ski and crashes.

We do spend a lot of time outdoors. It's actually fun to drink wine by the fire on a cold night. .

Some people think it's fun to drill a hole in the ice and stand there all day waiting for a fish to decide he'd rather be someone's meal than remain in the frozen water for one more moment. But truthfully, ice fishing really just an excuse for guys to get away from their wives everyone else and drink beer

We plow through all kinds of weather to get where we're going. And sometimes we even make it!

And we eat. Yessirree bob, we eat!  But, if we're lucky, we have a son who makes sure we do it very well.

Of course, often we have to just give in find something to do indoors. Playing games in a bar is an option. It's close to a beer tap and someone else cleans up after you.

And periodically, our indoor activity involves craft projects. This year's Christmas craft is actually the same as last year's. It's a simple project really and I'm going to share it with you so you too can do this at home.

You don't need much really. The most important item for this project is...

1 Frozen Mouse (keep in mind he has to have frozen quickly and never, ever thawed.

Then all you need is cotton, red ribbon, a glue gun, and... one... crazy... mother.

Decorate your mouse simple and elegantly (avoid dripping glue which we didn't do) and work quickly (advice from crazy mother) because a thawed Christmas Mouse is not a good thing.

Use your finished creation in any of your outdoor Christmas decorations.

I do believe, this is the only site on the internet with clear and concise instructions for this particular project. Happy crafting! Who needs spring anyway?

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! 

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.

J'ai un pied en deux pays

The bed is made, dishes done, and the apartment is picked up. I've showered, shaved and washed my hair, dressed and applied make-up and adorned myself with jewelry and perfume. I've turned on the stereo and even gone so far as to turn on the heat. Sounds pretty normal but lately I haven't been able to manage all those things. At least not all at the same time. But today is different. I have a date with my blog.

Actually, I'm not sure if I did all these things today in preparation for writing or in order to avoid it. The fact that I haven't posted since December 10 suggests the latter. But either way, I'm here....and writing...and am now wondering what the hell I've been waiting for.

Yes, I've been away. Away from France for 4 weeks visiting friends and family in the mid-west where I didn't have reliable internet nor a moment to spare to spend writing.  But I've been home now for 9 days. I've remained away; distant and almost fearful of getting back on the computer.  In fact, this return has for some reason hit me hard. I've been tired, I haven't felt good, and my emotions have been churning too close to the surface for comfort. And I have just not been able to figure out what it means or why.

Last night, my girls came over for dinner. I was so excited to see them...it's been 6 weeks. Those of you who have a group of friends like this understand what I mean. They are your confidents and you, theirs. They tell you if you have spinach in your teeth and when it's time to color your gray roots. They show up out of the blue when they know you're in trouble and offer you a warm bed when your apartment is just too cold to be livable. Your joy is theirs and their troubles are yours.  And I was so happy to have them here, share a meal and hear ALL the news.

But as the evening commenced I just couldn't....I just couldn't be me. I couldn't put my smile where it's accustomed to being. I couldn't share what I wanted to share. I....just....could...not. Finally Claire turned to me and asked me what was going on. And all I could say, with a bit of a tremble, was "I just don't know. I don't know."

She said "it's like you're floating, isn't it?" Yes, that's exactly it. She understood. They understood. Though French, Claire lived in the U.S. for years and Lynn is American but has lived here for 25 years. They understand the feeling that the re-entry brings and what it's like to have a foot in each country. Yes, I'm floating and I don't know why and I want it to stop.

Immediately the worry was whether or not I wanted to go back to the states for good. No, that's not it at all. I live here now. It's my choice and I don't regret it. It's just that coming back after spending 4 weeks of glorious moments with my boys and my family as well as old, dear friends seemed to uproot me a little. Thus the floating sensation.

I'm really not depressed. Just sort of in a surreal state of suspended animation. And it will pass. I'm sure all the other ex-pats who read this (if anybody ever reads it again after being gone so long) understand what I mean. Lynn says that it took her years before she could come back from the states and hit the ground running here at home. But last night as we were talking and I expressed my concern about my current weird state and what to do about it, Lynn looked at me and said simply, "do what you do". Okay Lynn, what is that?

"Write about it."

Now that's a hell of idea. And I feel better already. Merci, mes filles...Claire, Lynn et Saro. And thank you, those of you that read this, for waiting for me. It's good to be back.

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