Sèche / Linge

My college-self would laugh at my French self. As I hung my laundry this morning, I couldn't help but think back to the time when my roommate told me that her parents didn't have a dryer.

They what?!, I asked incredulously.

They don't have a dryer, she repeated.

Um, then how do they dry their clothes?

They have a clothesline. 

You mean, like outside? But what if they want to wear their jeans right away - what do they do then?

Well, they just have to wait for them to dry.

Yes, I seriously had this conversation and was seriously perplexed that my friend had lived her entire life drying her clothes on a clothesline.  If only she knew that my Frenchified self hasn't had a dryer for the past 7 years and that I depend on this handy-dandy contraption to air-dry my clothes...

As time goes on, I'm kind of proud of the fact that I have lived without a dryer for so long - and a dishwasher for that matter! But it also highlights how dependent I was on all of those creature comforts back when I lived in the states.  My parents' entire house smells like Bounce dryer sheets, just so you understand the severity of our / their dryer dependence.  I actually brought a few back to Paris after our last trip home to try and prevent winter static cling in my dresses.  I accidentally left the plastic baggie open with the sheets inside when I left the house one day, and when I came home, Copain asked me, "why does it smell like your parents' house in here???".

I cannot tell a lie - I do envy those rare Frenchies and expats who tell me they have dryers.  How amazing to just throw your clothes into a machine and have them come out dry and fluffy! Instead, my clothes rack takes up half of my living room for two days (or three in the winter!), while my clothes work to rid themselves of moisture.  We've even taken to turning on our dehumidifier at night so that our clothes dry faster. Oh, and I've learned to deal with crunchy towels. 

My college-self would like, so totally not get my French self. Funny what 7 years can do to a person n'est pas?

Ca y est!

My official French ceremony was planned for November 10th 2010 at 3.45pm (so French).  I had waited for so long for this moment, agonizing of when the day would finally come...

So it's a wonder that my biggest preoccupation on November 9th was what the heck do you wear to a Nationality ceremony??!


At the last minute I put together an "I've been Frenchified" apéritif so that my friends could celebrate with me after the big day. I convinced a bar in the Marais to reserve just a little teeny part of their terrace for me so that I would be sure to have enough room for up to 8 people.  I was told to call the day of just to confirm at around 3.  Needless to say I was P.Oed BIG TIME when I got a French trou du cul  (d-hole) on the phone telling me that they can't reserve anything unless I know how many people there will actually be. We will just ave to see on ze night Mademoiselle... and so I did what any self-respecting soon-to-be Frenchie would do: I responded snidely and hung up on him.


After venting about the Frenchie dill-hole, my colleague and friend C and I made our way over to the Salle Marianne on the Ile de la Cité. C was my paparazzi as I nervously waited outside for the ceremony to begin...

The Salle Marianne was fancified for the occasion - fancy music, fancy bleu, blanc, rouge projections, fancy lights, and bien sûr mes amis - a fancy copy of the Marseillaise (French National Anthem) on each chair.

Our Maître de Cérémonie was all kinds of amazing and even threw in some inappropriate commentary that would only pass in France (C and I were simultaneously cringing at each one)...things along the lines of: last ceremony there was a guy from Africa who was a white as me! (CRIIIIIINGGGGEEEE!!!!!)


We watched the movie "C'est Quoi Devenir Français" where we learned about the great values of Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité and the biggie Laïcité (separation of church and state).  The best part was the shot of the French chanting down the street holding signs and the video explaining that being French means having the right to go on strike! mais oui how could we forget!!

After the video it was time to sing the Marseillaise - ahhhh! I was afraid it would be like at church when I was a kid - you hold the prayer book and mouth the words - but no - everybody sang! phew! C still managed to get an incredibly embarrassing video of my singing out the ol' anthem but I'll spare you that here.

And finally, they called out each name and where the person was from for the "remise de nationalité".  It's a little along the lines of The Price is Right - FrenchCannesCannes from the United States come on down! Our amazing Maître de Cérémonie even told us that if we wanted to video the name calling bit we could have a "do-over " and set up a little stage shot that would have a "meilleur rendu" (a better turnout). ha!  I felt so bad for the poor souls who videoed but our MC got the crowd cheering when the person had to act surprised for the second time, run down for the second time, and give a bisous to the MC AGAIN.

When it was my turn to come on down I opted for just a photo (phew!). But that didn't stop the MC from saying, "FrenchCannesCannes? Why that's French! and you're from California I saw!" "Oui, Oui Monsieur, French from a long looooooong time ago...so long ago that I had to go through this process and couldn't just get French Nationality straight away!"

He gave me an extra loud bisous on each cheek and then... - I was French!

C and I headed to the dill-hole bar and found a table for 8 reserved for us...but like any self-respecting Française I sat elsewhere and left the table empty:-)


Et voila mes amis - quelques photos de la grande journée:

Getting ready to go into the Salle Marianne

The Maître de Cérémonie - he was amazing, I loved this guy

 

I've been Frenchified!

Hilarious photo on the way out of the Prefecture

Paris waiting to congratulate me after the ceremony...

Brownie Points for France

Let's do a recap:

• I officially turned in my request for French nationality on the 24th of May 2009.
• I then received a letter saying that I had an interview at the Prefecture de Nice in November 2009.
• On September 7th 2010 I called the Prefecture de Nice to see how my file was moving along.  It was then that I learned that I had been French since August 27th 2010.
• On September 9th 2010 I received a letter confirming what I had been told over the phone and informing me that within 6 months I would receive another letter with information about my official documents etc.
• On September 16th 2010 I tried to get a French ID card using the letter that I had been sent telling me that I was officially French.  It was then that I learned that I needed to wait for the "ceremonie".  Ahhhh - who knew!  

So I waited knowing very well that I could be waiting quite awhile before the famous ceremony information was sent my way.

France, I just want to say, wow - way to go.  Big pat on the back for you my friend.  Even though none of your worker minions knew what the hell was going on most of the time, you managed to pull through in the face of adversity.  Gold stars all around for France!

Just last week I got THE CEREMONIE LETTER telling me that I could do one of two things:

I could go to the Prefecture on October 26th to turn in my request for my French ID card and therefore receive it at the ceremony on November 10th OR I could just turn up at the ceremony and deal with my ID card later.

Never one to refuse the offer from France to show up at the Prefecture at a precise time instead of waiting in line for 8 hours like the rest of the population, I decided to go to the rendez-vous on October 26th.  They even warned us to prévoir une demi-journée - plan to stay half a day...how thoughtful.

I was nervous, I was running late and I was determined to re-do my ID photos so that my first French ID card would have a picture of how I looked at the time I learned I was French (I know, I know). The French gods were obviously looking down on me that day - there was a photo booth in the Cité metro stop and I got it on the first try - bam! Take that France!

This didn't prevent me from going to the wrong part of the Prefecture and having to take a long walk along the Seine to get to the right part but I finally made it to the Salle Marianne (the Marianne room) complete with Nicolas Sarkozy's photo, a French flag and Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité written on the wall. I felt French already.

The essence of France: bleu, blanc, rouge and lots of paperwork

I waited in line expecting to be standing there for at least two hours when I was surprisingly greeted  by two stoutly French women who took our photos and placed them on what can only be described as a serving tray.  Whatever works right?  We were instructed to take a seat and were then given a crash course in "Filling Out your ID Request Form 101". We were told that if we didn't know our height that they had a measuring stick there for our use - I was again so incredibly impressed with the planning that obviously went into this rendez-vous. I began to wonder if they hadn't they been secretly taking lessons from the Anglophones...

I looked around the room - people of all colors, all nationalities, all ages were there with me - and we all had something very special in common: we had worked hard to go through the system and to ultimately be French.  And we had made it. This was what we had been waiting for.

I wanted to reach out and congratulate each and every one of them but my new Frenchness told me not to -- only an American would do that right? Even still, I felt close to these people and just as happy for them as I was for myself.  We had all been through the gamut (some much more than others) to get to this very moment.

We all got copies of our French birth certificates to help us fill out our ID request forms.  I noticed that France had made a few small mistakes (mais bon, on est en France n'est pas?). My last name now had a space where before there was none AND my street name was completely wrong, but eh - those are just les détails right? I wasn't about to slow down the process by complaining about a little space or about my street name...so voila. Tant pis, c'est comme ça. The French FrenchCannesCannes will have a last name with a space.

I measured myself in meters, I turned in my documents (secretly took a photo- see above) and I left after only 2 hours of Prefecture galère. It was the least painful Prefecture experience I've had in 6 years.

Outside, I felt like Paris was congratulating me.  A man played the accordion on the bridge and the sun was shining in such a way that the Seine sparkled, creating a glow around the buildings on the banks.

Due to my running late I hadn't had time to eat and the pangs of hunger were starting to get stronger. I decided to bypass the bran biscuits in my purse and treat myself to a very French breakfast.  And that's just what I did at Chatelet, in a warm café where the Parisians bustle by the café windows. Just me, the Française, and my French petit-déjeuner. 

Ze French Attitude, AKA: Ze Art of Being Faux Cul

I like to think I'm a nice person. I say hello, I say goodbye, I say please and thank you.  I used to smile at people for no reason in the street until I realized that the French think that's creepy at which point I stopped.  I move (most of the time) for old ladies in the metro and I always give up my seat for a mother with her child.  Even when I'm in a Pepto Bismol Head mood I am friendly to people I don't know.

Some people may call this being nice even when I'm irritated as being faux cul - quite literally, a fake ass.  Faux culs have been around since the time of  Louis XIV when the women tacked on a fake booty as a means to seduce.  Since hypocrisy was the name of the game back in Louis' day, the term has now come to designate someone as a hyprocrite - a faux cul - a fake ass.

To the French, Americans are the worst faux culs in the world - they go to a restaurant in the states and are greeted with HimynameisCindyandIamgoingtobeyourservertoday! And it takes all of their strength to keep down their burger and fries.  They think of themselves as being more honest - more expressive of what they are truly feeling.  A typical French waiter does not tell you his or her name, they may not even say hello. You come in, you sit down, you eat, and aurevoir.  If they are nice they may ask you how the food tasted - but really they don't give a flying cuss.

I have mixed feelings about the faux cul - after six years in France, I beg to differ with the consensus that the Americans are the worst.  The way the French faux cul is expressed may be different - but the essence, the hypocrisy, is still alive and well. Most French people (and I notice this primarily in bakeries for some reason) have a strong hold on the concept and have mastered the overly-polite tone that when paired up with just the right condescending phrase creates the ultimate faux cul in all of it's glory.  The real masters can even mix one truly asshole sentence into the exchange, hitting you with a double whammy faux cul! You don't even see it coming! They serve you the faux cul on a platter and wrap it up in a sing-songy Merci Madame, Aurevoir! bow at the end of the conversation.

What it comes down to is that the French faux cul is just more complex than the American one.  They manage to use a certain tone all while saying words that mean just the opposite - it's almost a wonder to watch them in action. Despite my complete and total irritation with the French faux culs, somehow I wish there were more of them in Paris.  For some reason the Parisians don't even have the energy for faux cul-ness - they just get straight to the ugly point:

You want to have a drink? Well sit over there because that table in the nice area is for 4 people and there are only 2 of you! Vous comprenez Madame! C'est comme ça - je ne peux pas faire autrement. You understand Madame, that's how it is and I can't do it any other way. 

Where I would like to be able to smile and say something equally as cutting as any well-trained Frenchman, I find myself letting out a big sigh and then an irritated oh la la! mais n'importe quoi! fly out of my mouth instead.  This reaction is certainly not American and only borderline French.  My friends, I think it might just be Parisian.

The Parisians cut in line, they push each other and they yell at you to open the metro door when you wait 2 seconds too long.  They just don't have time to be faux cul.

And so mes amis, I am torn. As an American, I seek out the smiling face.  I want to offer to help someone lug their suitcase up the metro stairs. I lend my cell phone to the poor foreigner whose credit card gets eaten by the ATM. I take a moment to savor every random act of kindness that I observe here because they are so rare. And so, in this city where being kind is such a rarity, I appreciate a little faux cul every once in a while - at least pretending to be nice is better than not pretending at all - right?

And yet, there is a Parisian in me just aching to get out! I want the grandma pushing 80 to WALK FASTER through the metro corridor! I want to be the next person served! I don't want the table by the bathroom door at the restaurant!
oh la la! mais n'importe quoi!

The French Know How to do it Up Right

On the 7th of September 2010 the French decided to call everyone to strike - stop the metros, stop the buses, stop the post office, stop stop stop! REVOLUTION!!!!!  

Crowd the streets! Yell! Make posters! Chant with them while marching down the street! Get blow horns! Inconvenience everyone!

I can't say I blame them - the government wants to increase the age of retirement here. But - is there perhaps another way to get the point across? Who knows. But the French sure know how to do it up right.

On the 7th of September I decided to walk to work. I wouldn't let the strike get me down...I put on my tennis shoes and head out for work one hour early to get there on time.  Finding myself early, I though I'd grab some delicious pastries for my colleagues. Armed with pain au chocolats and croissants I arrived at work happy as a clam.

My stress began to mount as I realized that my carte de sejour renewal was coming up - in a month.  My French significant other would need to fly back to France from his study abroad program in the states JUST TO BE THERE WITH ME when I renewed my card. Hi honey - thanks for coming - bye now. Since November 2009 I've been hoping that I would be French by now. Every time I walk up my apartment building stairs I hope that there will be a letter waiting on my doormat announcing - Vous êtes française! But alas, it was September 7th and still no letter.

I had already called my Prefecture contact twice before and each time she was incredulous that I was still not French. Toujours pas? she would ask me - Non, toujours pas I would say. Et merde.

I figured I had one last chance to call her before she would stop liking me and turn on her annoyed French Madame attitude. I gave myself a pep talk and made the call - Désolée Madame, elle n'est pas là. She's not there. 

I took a deep breath and decided to call back in 10 minutes. 

Ring ring....

Oui bonjour, Mme at the Prefecture?

Oui, this is Mme at the Prefecture - who is this?

This is FrenchCannesCannes - remember me? The American?

Oh OUIII! But you are toujours pas French??!

Toujours pas :-(

Well, let me try and look at your file...give me your file number again...

28791234qslfkdjqmdlfjqdsmfj....

hmmmm - I don't see it....this is trés trés strange....let me try again...let me ask my colleague....ummm

(10 minutes later)

Oh mais - C'est bon! Vous êtes française since August 27th!

What?! I am French??!!! Are you sure?!!!

Why yes! It says right here that you were made French on August 27th and that it was posted in the Journal Officiel on August 29th! Féliciations! Congratulations!  You can see the Journal Officiel online with your name printed and everything.

Merci Madame! Merci infiniment!!! (tears, sniffles) Merci pour tout!!! Aurevoir!

I pulled up Internet Explorer and Googled the Journal Officiel - I read through all of the Official laws, all of the Official decrees, all of the Official striking information until I got to the Official French people - but guess what? The only part of the Journal Officiel that is not printed online is the nationalities section. Yeah, thanks France, thanks a bunch.

My Momma landed in Paris 2 hours later to striking angry French people blocking the streets to my house.  I met her at République with hugs and kisses and we dragged her suitcases to my Parisian apartment through leaflets and banners that had been left from the crowds.

We got settled and headed to a little restaurant called La Fée Verte. I promptly ordered 2 glasses of champagne and when they arrived held mine up for a toast..."I have something to tell you," I told her..."you are looking at a French girl!"

She cried and hugged me and we raised our glasses to France and the French - who strike, who delete entire sections from online publications and who forget to tell you when you are awarded with their nationality. But who serve up a mean glass of bubbly and chèvre chaud that no other nation can shake a stick at.

Survival of the Rudest

It's not just a stereotype that the French are rude - it's true. They really are quite a rude species.  They don't give a damn that you might be offended by their rudeness.  After six years in France I still don't understand it.

I pride myself on my political correctness and polite demeanor - I apologize for things that were never my fault to begin with and I am overly sensitive to other peoples' feelings.  I never cut in line and I offer for people to go ahead of me because, well you know, I'm nice. I'm so stupidly American nice it's rough sometimes.

Now the French don't see this as being nice as a good quality but rather as a pushover maladie.  A dumb pushover, no backbone whatsoever.  The kind of girl you can walk all over because she'll never raise her voice.

Well, a new me is slowly but surely developing and she pops out of nowhere when I least expect it.  Two such incidences happened just today:

I had to go to a cell phone store for work.  I knew they would probably close at 7pm so I left work at 6.30 and arrived at the store at 6.45.  I had fifteen minutes to get done what I needed to get done. Only, the big gate in front of the door was already halfway closed.  As I approached the gate, an employee came up to me and told me it was already closed.  "What time do you close?" I asked, clearly noting the 9am to 7pm sign on the door.   "6.45," he told me.  And instead of just walking away and letting it go, I said, "well you should change the sign on your door then!".

Normal Me would never say that. Normal Me would smile, say, "ah shucks, I guess I'll come back tomorrow then." But French Me was pissed. They clearly closed 15 minutes early and clearly lied to my face. Bastards!

I made my way home by foot only to be drawn into the organic food store BioCoop.  So fun this store of random pastas made of chestnut flour and gluten free cookies with organic cotton panty liners! I toured around and chose some organic salsa and lavender detergent and then tried to find the line to pay.  Now if there is one thing the French are horrible at it's defining and then standing in lines.  The stores don't know how to indicate where the line starts and the French people don't understand the concept of one line, multiple cashiers, when one cashier finishes the next person in line gets to go.  It's beyond me.  So, I was having trouble finding where the end of the line was located and I had to flip flop twice to feel like I had marked my spot.  However, a woman with a stroller was having the same difficulty, sort of but not completely behind me.  Now I am a softy for mothers with babies, but something in me just thought tant pis for her! I have been standing in this nondescript line! I will not apologize and let her go ahead! Stupid BioCoop and the French lines! And I held my ground and I went next - not without a slight pang of guilt, but enough was enough!

I really don't know where these outbursts are coming from but I would predict that it has a lot to do with survival of the rudest in the wilds of France.  Only the rudest will survive!

My Feet Are American, obviously

What's the Frenchwoman's secret to feet without blisters, legs without shin splints and backs and hips without shooting pains? I need to know before my excessive Paris walking gets the better of me! I've given up heels altogether after two unfortunate experiences (you'd think I would have learned the first time, but no, I was sure I could handle it).

I was wrong.

Is it Mephisto shoes? Is it Birkenstocks? Is it Repetto ballerinas? Do they have differently shaped feet? Is it all the cheese? WHAT IS THE SECRET?!

Please advise.

Frenchified

When I lived in Toulouse I walked EVERYWHERE.  After having lived in So Cal and driving my bootay all over creation for 22 years before moving to France, walking and biking took some getting used to.  My feet hurt, my bum hurt, but I survived and am now an avid walker. 

My biggest challenge was finding the right shoes for all this walking.  While my Frenchie boyfriend encouraged me to wear talons aiguille, I was more inspired by my friend H's clogs which she wore during her bartending shifts.  They looked so comfortable and amazing that on my next trip out to the states I bought a pair of Dansko clogs - AKA nurses shoes only black.

When I got back to Toulouse and tried them on for the French copain, he just about flipped his camembert cheese. Mais, mais...ce n'est pas possible ça! C'est trop moche! Quel bordel! Vous, les Américains! ohlalalalaalala

In defiance I wore them out once anyways - (Frenchie quick-walked up ahead with embarrassment) and as if to spite me, my beloved Danskos gave me blisters. They then went under my bed and held things like expensive jewelry in the toes (just in case my apartment got robbed again!).

I reminice about the Danskos because just this Thursday I woke up with swollen, throbbing feet from an event that went late the night before.  My Geox ballerina flats are a good idea in principal (and definitely better than heels) but they just don't provide the support that my old dogs need.  At any rate, as I lie in bed hitting snooze every five minutes, I started to think about what shoes I might wear to work that would actually be comfortable.  Converse? too casual. Boots? too high a heel. Dansko????......

But I couldn't do it. They ARE hideous. a bordel. trop moche. What would the Croisette crowd think?  How could I blind the eyes of Dior and Louis Vuitton like that? It was inhumane. And so under my bed they stayed and will stay...I have been Frenchified my friends.

Presque Française (Almost French)

11pm French time, 5pm Virginia time:

"Hello, FBIcustomerservicehowmayIhelpyou?"

"Hi, I'm calling because I sent through my second request for a criminal record report at the end of October and I'm very concerned because I have not received it yet. I need it urgently to complete my request for French nationality."

"Ok, let me try to look it up in our system...What's your last name M'am?" ...

(30 seconds later)

"Yes, I see that we received it on November 2 and it is currently being processed. Now our normal process time is 8 to 10 weeks so it should be sent to you shortly."

"That is wonderful! Thanks for your help!"

9am French time:

"Bonjour, can I please speak with Madame WorkingOnMyFileAtThePrefecture ?"

"Oui, please hold."

"Allo?"

"Yes, Bonjour Madame WorkingOnMyFileAtThePrefecture? I am calling to let you know that after our interview in October I sent a second request to the FBI for my criminal record report - remember how mine was older than three months and you needed a new one just in case I had commited a crime in the United States during that time? Well, they have received my request and are currently processing it.  They should send through a response by the end of January. I know it has been a long time and I wanted you to know that the document will be sent to you shortly."

"You are the Américaine?"

"Oui."

"From Cannes?"

"Oui, that is me, the Américaine from Cannes."

"Oh, pas de soucis! no worries! I already sent your file to be considered...you don't need to send me another criminal record report. C'est bon."

"C'est bon?"

"Oui, c'est bon."

So I guess...c'est bon. Presque française....

Inspiration: Phiney

I've recently been following my good friend, old roomie's blog -The Daily Orgasm ...and I thought to myself - self, you had a blog, what the hell happened to it?

And so, I'm back. Here I am.

Naturally, I think it's fitting to talk about my time at the French Prefecture last Wednesday. I've applied for French nationality (double peeps, double!) and turned in my HUGE ASS application last May. I got a letter saying they were working on it about two months later and then just a few weeks ago, another letter saying that I had to come in for an interview with a bunch of papers they deemed "missing." Well let me just clear that up by telling you that the French are notorious for "losing" things and then blaming you for never having turned them in. I almost went ape shit on the lady, but in my sweetest, syrupiest voice managed to explain that I would be happy to order another FBI record for Madame but would it be at all possible to NOT pay the 100 extra euros that it takes to translate it?? I'm getting good at this kissing French ass stuff. seriously.

I had massive anxiety waiting for the interview - like stomach pains and night sweats - the works people. Got dressed in my "dont you want to give me French nationality" outfit and headed off to the Prefecture bright and early for my 10am meeting. I was PREPARED - 10 cent pieces to make random photocopies of other "missing papers," snacks, water, cell phone charger, two cell phones, bus money, magazine for waiting, girl scout badge. I got there an HOUR early.

Then I sat and waited and tried to avoid smelling people who sat next to me. (I dont know what it is about the Prefecture but peeps just STINK there). I always wear a scarf when I go for nose coverage purposes - it's always very necessary.

Finally, I got called in by my interviewer - Giselle. She immediately became infatuated by my Americaness - the woman asked me about my thoughts on 9/11! She told me that my file would be put on priority! She sneekily put that I only visit home once a year instead of twice to "help my request." And while I used to yell at Copain for insinuating that my being American got me ahead in the French system - I can yell no longer. He was totally right. It doesn't help my case that the accountant at work - a Vietnamese refugie who arrived in France at age 7 only received nationality last year! He is in his late twenties and had to wait five years from the day he put in a formal request. The man could not leave the country his entire life until now. Almost makes me want to buy him a flight on Easy Jet just because he could use it!

On the one hand, I'm not complaining. I've had a hell of a time staying here legally and dealing with the red tape of France. But on the other hand - it's crap. I don't deserve to be French any more than the accountant does - in fact he deserves it more. He's way more French than I am...he's lived here since age 7!

Last night I got a letter in the mail from Giselle - turns out there is something wrong with my birth certificate - it is missing the "official sticker." Guess I'll have to call and sweetly explain that it is embossed.

The fun never ends.