My Uncle B is pretty awesome - you know all those emails home that my mom can't find on AOL? Well my Uncle kept them! He sent me this email this morning:
FCC,
So what do you get when you cross an info junkie with a pack rat?
An uncle who saves all of your old emails.
Awesome right? Right! I read through a few already and thought that this one would be a great follow up to my last French Riviera Fashion Report. Happy Friday peeps! May you float on into Saturday on a cloud of Lomi Lomi love....
Yogi Yogi Lomi Lomi
written and sent to all of my Americannes friends in 2005
Bonjour!
It feels like it has been awhile since I’ve done the big email home thing, last time was probably The Big Break-in which I have since recovered from (thank you French insurance and the fact that I bought some back in July). I decided after my experience yesterday that it was worthy of sharing. And so, here I am.
I just started going to yoga on a regular basis. My friend J (another English assistant) introduced me to the teacher, P, who sports dreadlocks down to his butt and very cleverly coifs them into a knotted bun on the top of his head for class. This coif somehow stays put even through downward dog. It impresses me every time.
I bought the two classes per week for a month package and went to class on Wednesday night. Feeling calm and happy with my life, I decided that I would try to be a really good yogi and go on Thursday morning too (we’ll see how long this keeps up). So, Thursday morning rolls around, I get my booty over to yoga, P has his bun in place and I’m ready to go. I almost fall asleep during the meditation so I figure that I have gotten full benefits of my time and I am now thoroughly convinced that H and my idea of opening a laying studio in San Francisco is definitely going to be a success.
After yoga, I hear P (who lived in LA for three years) telling another student that I am from Magic Mountain. (This is the only thing people associate with Santa Clarita). Hearing the name of my native land I ask the woman where she is from…..turns out that she comes straight out of the bubble which is Irvine. I blah blah blah about how my friend’s dad teaches at UCI and we have instantaneous bonding. She is American, lives in France with her French husband and now duel passport holding daughter (lucky!).
Now, what we didn’t know was that there was another Anglophone in the room who I soon came to know as Jodi. And here is where my story begins. Jodi is Australian, has just arrived in France and speaks very very little French. I tell her of my breakdowns and crying episodes and days when I hate France and she tells me that it makes her feel so normal. So again, here I go with the instant bonding. I’m so good at this. I ask her what she does in France and it turns out that she is trying to start a business with Hawaiian massage. I have never heard of Hawaiian massage, but seeing as how my shoulder is hurting something fierce (thank you H and Kim’s idea to put you on my shoulders whilst walking all around the stage dropping feathers), and the fact that French kinesiologists have so far been no help whatsoever, I am interested and ask her to tell me more about it.
Like a good business woman should, she opens up her backpack which is filled with pamphlets. She hands me one and tells me that I would probably be a good candidate for the Full Body Ka Huna massage or perhaps even the Heartworks Lomi Lomi. Her pamphlet describes these massages as comparable to “swimming with dolphins,” and even something like, “a soul to soul dance.” She also reminds her clients, “Remember, you are not your body, you are not your emotions, you are not your thoughts, you are a spark of the Divine.” I don’t know if I agree, but she sure has got the artsy fartsy thing down. I am now wondering why she chose France and not San Francisco to open her practice. I feel like this would go perfectly with our laying studio. I ask her how she does these massages and she asks me if I would like to take a tea to talk about it. I should have been wary, but I guess I was so happy to be speaking English that I let that feeling go and said yes.
On the way, she started to do this dancey, elbow up and down, hulaesque performance behind me, to give me an idea of the Lomi Lomi and the kind of massage I would expect. Looking behind me to take in the hula goodness, I almost stepped in the famous Toulouse dog poop twice and finally just let her hula alone without spectators all the way to the salon de thé. I took her to a place called La Sherpa (which I just found out is having 10 days of non-smoking inside!...my lucky day!) We sat down, took off our coats, and it was then that I noticed she was wearing a t-shirt which read: Chicks dig Vegans. Underneath the phrase were four baby chicks (obviously alive, because SHE had not eaten them). Now the wary feeling has started to kick in, but I’ve sat down and ordered my autumn tea, and she her anis tea, so I’m stuck. I ask her why she ordered Anis, because I hate Anis (licorice flavored!). She says it is cleansing and that she is fasting today, so it will be good for her. Great. A faster. Who smells like licorice now.
As I add sugar to my tea and as Jodi eats the Anis seeds in hers, I ask her how she ended up in France. Well, she tells me, I work for PETA in London and they asked me to do a world tour. After organizing PETA demonstrations all over the world, I feel like I’ve found a second home in France. Ah ha! A PETA demonstrator. I think I’m wearing leather uggs. Why have I already ordered the tea?! So Jodi’s life mission is to work for animal rights. Little does she know, she is sitting with maybe the most heartless person when it comes to farm animals. (I have gotten much better about house pets I’ll have you all know.) I ask her what exactly she DOES at these demonstrations. She says that she does mostly nude demos or at least ones where she is wearing fur and then someone violently cuts it off of her leaving her naked and smeared in red paint in the middle of the town. Is she an activist or is she an activist. Apparently I missed the one in Toulouse when she stood outside of Jean Paul Gautier dressed in a rabbit head and fur coat and did the whole cutting / nude afterwards bit. She laid there, she says, naked and covered in red paint, until Jacques, the store owner, came out and dumped a bucket of cold water on her which made her go in to shock since it was the middle of December. At this point I’m thinking that maybe the nude demos should be saved for the summer months. She also recounted the time in London, when she streaked at a cricket match with www.veg.com written across her back; the time in Turkey that she got a talking to by the police; the time she got arrested in Germany for storming the United Colors of Benetton store because they buy Australian wool; and the time when she screamed and yelled at people in the Australian Embassy in Paris in order to get arrested, but they just let her scream for two hours until she lost her voice and had to leave. Wouldn’t the humiliation make you stop? Not Jodi. Jodi says that she will do anything. That it’s “so much fun.” And that to help the sheep in Australia, it’s worth it.
I think that my all time favorite Jodi story is the one where she obtained a white Styrofoam meat packaging tray, only life-sized, and proceeded to lay in it naked (and covered in red paint of course) with two other people, and then sealed themselves up with plastic wrap and created a meat sticker to put on top. She laid in Capitole, the center of town in this contraption for hours in order to combat the buying, selling, and eating of meat. “To show people that what they are really eating, is flesh.”
“So you don’t eat meat?”, I stupidly ask her. “Oh, no no no,” she says, “I’m a vegan.” “So what do you eat?” I inquire. “Well,” she says, “I’m a very healthy vegan, so I try to eat 80 percent raw, and I stick to vegis, fruits, and lots of seeds and lentils.”
Sounds tasty. I mention Trader Joes and she is watering at the mouth. She tells me that there is a great health food store near my house that sells almond butter, not too expensive. They also have tofu sausages and vegi burgers if I ever want to try them out. Soy yogurt, one of her favs, is also available. I have to admit that I was slightly intrigued by the almond butter seeing as how there is a very small selection of peanut butter in France. I consider stopping in later, but vow not to take things too far for fear that she might think she has converted me to the land of lentils and succeeded in depriving me from any and all joy of indulgence.
She then goes on to describe the cruelty in which chickens are raised and how, really, you have no idea what you are eating. When I ask her, what, in fact, I am eating when I eat chicken, she uses words like “growth hormones” to describe it to me! I’m getting annoyed at this point because I was looking forward to eating my BBQ chicken leftovers waiting in my fridge, which were supposed to be lunch.
I’m not sure why, but I feel like this is a good time to tell her that she would hate my family. Thankfully, Jodi tells me that “she does not judge.” So I’m safe to tell her why. Phew, because I was worried. I tell her that my dad is a hunter, who learned from his dad, who then taught his son, my brother. I tell her, perhaps for shock value, that our garage freezer is full of dead elk and that the garage walls are covered in deer heads and stuffed pheasant. I then elaborate on our creative family meals of elk meatballs, deer tacos, and pheasant stew. If you’re lucky, I tell her, you get the bullet in your serving. That’s when my dad will tell you which part you’re eating because he remembers where he shot the (insert animal here). Apparently Jodi does judge because she cannot imagine how I can eat that. AND apparently Jodi is curious because she asks me how it tastes in relation to beef. More gamey I tell her. She is disgusted. I am a genius.
I guess in requesting more information about the Hawaiian massage, I was really getting recruited by PETA, because not five minutes later, Jodi was telling me that I should do the “Leopard Demonstration” with her. What does that entail, I ask her. Oh, it’s so much fun, she says. You get to dress up like a leopard and parade down the street waving at the media and carrying the PETA banner! I tell her that I would feel like a hypocrite since I eat meat and wear leather. She tells me it’s okay because the Leopard Demo is anti-fur…so there would be no reason to feel hypocritical. Crap. I feel myself getting sucked in and I can’t let it happen!! I can’t let her recruit me to parade around Toulouse in leopard ears and black nylons carrying an animal rights poster!! It can’t happen! It would go against all my morals!
Thankfully, at this point, Jodi tells me that she has to go. She is expecting a delivery of seven Lomi Lomi massage tables at her apartment any minute. I’m saved. No leopard ears, no laying naked in the meat wrapping for me. No more smelling licorice tea and watching her suck the seeds out of her teeth. No more talk of growth hormones. That was a close one. In parting, I tell Jodi that she might want to check out the market at Victor Hugo that takes place every morning. It might be a great place for your next demonstration, I say. Why’s that, she asks me. Well, you should see the way they sell the animals at the butcher…..chickens and rabbits with their heads still on….sheep hanging by their feet. It’s PETA’s worst nightmare.
ps - the American in yoga from Irvine - it's my good friend over at The Ups and Downs of an American in France !!
Showing posts with label flashback. Show all posts
Showing posts with label flashback. Show all posts
2.22.2010
Flashback for French Cannes Cannes - I Should Have Majored in Drama
As I get closer and closer to becoming a Frenchie, let's look back at my emails home during the early days...after re-reading a few of these long looooong emails I think it's a friggin miracle I still live here. Seriously, I deserve a damn medal. I think becoming French will be that medal - I plan on wearing a T-shirt to the ceremony that says "I survived living in France."
I'll be posting these emails now and again, in no particular order because, well, I have to find them first and considering that AOL is old school and erases your stuff and that my apartment got broken into and my computer stolen during my second year in France, that is no easy task. My mom kept the hard copies so unfortunately I may be re-typing these suckers in the near future. For now here is one that I found in a folder called "France" in my Yahoo account. It's about my search for a job after about 7 months in Toulouse...
**Before you read - keep in mind that Mr Auchan is the boss of the hotel Novotel and that he made me feel like total crap about myself when he called me for a phone interview. My French was awful and well, it showed. I guess being fluent was a sort of pre-req.
I Should Have Majored in Drama
written and sent to all of my Americannes friends on Friday 13 May 2005
It has recently come to my attention that my life here would not be non-existent if it weren’t for drama. Drama fills any and all voids, takes up my free time, and if I ever have a moment of peace in my brain, the drama-police takes care of that and throws some stress inducing thought in there.
I say this because after the past week, the drama has become cumbersome. Consequently, I have decided that this drama needs to be shared. With you.
After my last email requesting advice as to what I should do with Mr. Auchan, many events have taken place. And here they are, presented in the most dramatic way possible so that you can feel (even way over there in the United States) the all-encompassing drama of it all.
So, after being fully rejected by Mr. Auchan and toying with the idea of walking into Novotel and showing just how great I am to his face, I decided to go for a rejection run to get out my anger and empower myself. “I am woman, hear me roar etc.” It must have really worked, because as soon as I got home, the phone rang. Of course I didn’t answer it because it was a hidden number and I have a phobia of answering when I don’t know who it is. So I let anonymous caller leave a message. I checked the message, and low and behold, it’s another hotel, Hotel Mecure, calling because they need a “hostesse accueil petit dejeuner.” In other words, they need someone who is willing to arrive at the hotel bright eyed and bushy tailed at 7:30 in the morning to greet guests at breakfast. The woman on the phone, Laurence, told me that she would need me four mornings a week, two hours per morning, for a whopping eight hours per week. (oooooh…ahhhhhhh). I quickly analyzed my situation: FCC, you have no job. You are soon without parental support. Novotel and Mr. Auchan hates you. No one else is begging you to work for them. Getting up early sucks. Remember you have no job.
After my five second self-analysis, I took a deep breath and said “oui” I’ll do it. Laurence instructed me to bring a white button down shirt, SKIRT, and flat black shoes. I made do with what I had and arrived at the hotel at 7:30am the next morning…as bright eyed and bushy tailed as possible…with enough cover-up on to hide my rapidly growing under-eye bags. Laurence took me to the breakfast room and then, I was working. This was on-the-job training if I’ve ever had any. Basically, I have to greet the guests with a perky, “Bonjour!” and then ask for their room number. Usually they don’t remember, or can’t say it in French, so I impress them with my amazing English skills. The guest is relieved that SOMEONE speaks a decent language around here and can get them the extra spoon that they need or the double espresso that has been calling their name since they woke up this morning. (They secretly love me for this, and the guest and I exchange a silent bonding moment together). Once I have been the room number nazi, it is also my job to fill up whatever is empty: orange juice, coffee, ham and cheese, croissants, eggs, you name it, I re-fill it. When guests are done, it is my pleasure, at zero dark thirty to clear their trays and dishes and take them to the kitchen where Laurent (not to be confused with Laurence) puts them in the washer etc. Laurent is the helper guy in the back who comes up to my shoulder in height and runs around the kitchen saying, OOOH laaaaaa, je ne peux plus la…..ooooh laaaaaa! (ooh wow, I can’t take it any more…..etc). He’s overly dramatic and I love him for it. Besides the fact that I have eye crusties when I get to work and that guests get annoyed with me for asking them their room number twice (this happens when I forget a face), I do like my job. I speak more English than French while I’m there and I’m done with work by 9:30am.
That was my happy introduction. Don’t worry, the drama is coming.I got a call from Laurence yesterday. Well, not A call, as much as SEVERAL calls. She wanted me to call her back RIGHT away. Something was very wrong. I could hear it in her voice and see it in the fact that she had called six times. So I call her back and she says, “FCC, you don’t have the right to work.”
Uh, yes I do.
“No, you don’t have the right to work. You have to come to the hotel right now and pick up some papers from me and then you have to go to another office to get another special card in order to work legally in France.”
Are you sure?
“Yes, I’m sure. Come now because you can’t work until you have this card.”
I’m on my way.
I’ve just gotten out of dance class and I’m a nasty mess, but I jump on the metro and arrive in twenty minutes in front of the hotel. Say Bonjour to the women at the front desk and take the elevator to Laurence’s office. It smells like rotting cigarettes (do you feel the drama mounting??)
Laurence is in another private office that is on the other side of her office…this would be Olivier Name has been withheld’s office, and I believe that he is the big cheese/director of the hotel Mecure. In other words, this man is important. I shake his hand and apologize for the inconvenience.
He responds: “Are you trying to send me to prison Mademoiselle?!”
Me: No no, I’m so sorry, I had no idea! In fact, I called the director of my program and she says that I have the right to work. She is even faxing you the paper that says so.
The fax arrives. It is the same paper that Monsieur has right in front of him. I realize that my director is a num-nut who has no idea about the students she is directing, nor the legal side of them working in France. As a result, she is trying to send Olivier to prison. This is obviously HER fault.
Olivier and Laurence explain that I have to go to the Cite Administrative. I must bring my carte de sejour, my student ID card, a letter saying that Hotel Mecure is hiring me, and a stamped envelope. I take the letter, shake their hands, and leave the hotel. I am told to call them back when I receive my card which should be within a week. But knowing that I am in France, I am obviously multiplying this time period by two. Until then I cannot work, and I will not receive a check because I have already worked four days illegally and Olivier could go to prison if it is recorded that they paid me. Wonderful.
Fast forward to this morning. I jump on my bike and ride to the center of town. I go to the worst physical therapy of my life. My doctor asked me how is was and I basically told him that normally when I get massages I can feel it and that maybe he has a different method that I don’t know about. I would call it the “I’m massaging you, but you wouldn’t know it” method. He didn’t like my comment and told me that he has his own way of doing things and that if I didn’t like it….blah blah blah. So I’m burning bridges and it’s not even 11 am yet.
After I go to the Prefecture to get information about whether or not I have to return to the United States to renew my carte de sejour. I wait in a long line that reminds me just how Un-French I am only to find out that they “aren’t sure and I should call back later.”
(For those of you that don’t know, I am staying in France for another year because I got accepted to teach English next year to elementary and high school students in Toulouse!!) (the one good thing in this email…)
Then, since it is now 1:30 and the Cite Administrative is open, I ride my new velo (bike) on over there. By now, I have been riding all over town and I’m wishing that I had splurged and gotten the gel seat. I find the Cite Administrative, building B, and walk on in. I meet a woman who is in dire need of lip balm and say Bonjour. I tell her that I am an etudiante etrangere (foreign student) and that Hotel Mecure wants to hire me. She smiles and her lips crack. I give her the letter from Olivier. Her smile fades. I’m not sure if it’s because she is in pain or because there is something wrong with my letter. Sadly, it’s the latter. She says that the date that marks the first day of employment is missing. There is the final date (sadly July 4, I’m out of work!). But no beginning date. And that, she says, “doesn’t work for her.” My tension is mounting and I’m wondering if I need to find another physical therapist to get rid of the knot that is growing in my neck area.
I call Laurence and explain that the letter is not working out for lip balm lady. Well, she says, you’ll have to stop by this afternoon to get a new letter. Then, you must go back to the Cite Administrative to drop off the new information. I wait for another call telling me that Olivier has written a new letter. I velo it back to the hotel (I have now gone back and forth and back and forth too many times). As I enter his office, he is yelling into a speaker phone, sounding important. He hands me the letter, I shake the man’s hand, and before you know it, I’m on my velo again, biking my booty back to the Cite. I have to get there before 4pm when they close for the day. The French have a 35 hour work week, in case you were wondering. A typical office is open from 9am-11:30am and then from 1:30pm-4pm. Please notice that lunch is two hours. This basically leaves you screwed if you actually have a life and don’t have a lot of free time to be stopping by offices at times that are convenient for them. But that is another gripe, for another story.
I’m back at the Cite. I park the velo, and walk in. The lips crack again upon seeing me enter the office. She is obviously impressed with my velo skills and power over the mighty Olivier. I give her all of my documents and she hands me a receipt. She says that I will receive my card in about eight days. (so, 16). I am not allowed to work until I get it. Fortunately, Laurence and Olivier are going to save my place and Laurence will be the bright eyed and bushy tailed hostesse for the next week or two. She must hate me.
Problem number two. I am looking for an apartment. I have wanted my girlfriend, Amandine’s apartment ever since I saw it way back in October. It’s big, high ceilings, has a WASHING MACHINE (a rarity in studios here!), is clean, new, and is right in the VERY CENTER of town. Basically, your dream apartment. I’ve been holding out on saying yes to other apartments because of this one. I’d been waiting to hear from Amandine so that I could go and look at it to make sure that everything was fine. Then I wanted to go to her agency and tell them that I would take it, here and now. So, I call Amandine. She’s giving an oral presentation and is afraid she is going to miss her train to Paris, so she can not meet with me at the time we had originally discussed. However, she has already informed the agency of her departure in June and so I can go directly to see them myself.
I arrive at the agency. I tell them that I want to talk to someone about Amandine’s apartment. A woman in a very blue power suit comes to talk to me. She asks me questions blah blah blah. Isn’t Amandine’s apartment nice? Oh yes, I love it too..blah blah blah. So we have come to the conclusion that we both want to live there. Then from the background pipes up a man that works at the agency. Apparently, the landlord of that apartment is saving it for his daughter next year. It’s not available. Now I’m having heart palpitations because the apartment of my dreams is slowly falling into jagged pieces of glass and stabbing me in the eye! WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT’S NOT AVAILABLE??!!!! I’m trying to calm myself down but my dream is lost and the stress is rising.
Power suit lady tells me her name is Mme. Simone and that she would like to talk to me “calmement” downstairs. She can see that she has crushed my dream and she must feel really bad about it I tell myself. I go downstairs and wait for her. I tell her my budget: 450 euros a month. Where I want to live: right next to Amandine’s apartment. What kind of apartment I want: an apartment just like Amandine’s. Clear enough. She then asks me if I have a “Cautionnaire.” A what? A who? “A Cautionnaire.” Basically, someone who lives and works in France and makes three to four times the amount of my rent, who can sign my lease stating that if I don’t pay my rent, he/she will. Normally, this would be my two wonderful parents. Bo and Momo. However, we have a small problem. Neither one lives nor works in France. I thought about all of the people who I know who fit those requirements and I came up with : No one.
I looked at three apartments anyways…..but all the while I was inspecting the surrounding areas for nice parks; parks that might work well for a sturdy box that don’t require cautionnaires to live in.
With all of the recent events, I just wonder why I picked Dance when the Drama department was right next door. I could be writing screen plays with all this material, but instead, I have to burden you all with the re-counting of the tales in a long, five page Word attachment file.
I'll be posting these emails now and again, in no particular order because, well, I have to find them first and considering that AOL is old school and erases your stuff and that my apartment got broken into and my computer stolen during my second year in France, that is no easy task. My mom kept the hard copies so unfortunately I may be re-typing these suckers in the near future. For now here is one that I found in a folder called "France" in my Yahoo account. It's about my search for a job after about 7 months in Toulouse...
**Before you read - keep in mind that Mr Auchan is the boss of the hotel Novotel and that he made me feel like total crap about myself when he called me for a phone interview. My French was awful and well, it showed. I guess being fluent was a sort of pre-req.
I Should Have Majored in Drama
written and sent to all of my Americannes friends on Friday 13 May 2005
It has recently come to my attention that my life here would not be non-existent if it weren’t for drama. Drama fills any and all voids, takes up my free time, and if I ever have a moment of peace in my brain, the drama-police takes care of that and throws some stress inducing thought in there.
I say this because after the past week, the drama has become cumbersome. Consequently, I have decided that this drama needs to be shared. With you.
After my last email requesting advice as to what I should do with Mr. Auchan, many events have taken place. And here they are, presented in the most dramatic way possible so that you can feel (even way over there in the United States) the all-encompassing drama of it all.
So, after being fully rejected by Mr. Auchan and toying with the idea of walking into Novotel and showing just how great I am to his face, I decided to go for a rejection run to get out my anger and empower myself. “I am woman, hear me roar etc.” It must have really worked, because as soon as I got home, the phone rang. Of course I didn’t answer it because it was a hidden number and I have a phobia of answering when I don’t know who it is. So I let anonymous caller leave a message. I checked the message, and low and behold, it’s another hotel, Hotel Mecure, calling because they need a “hostesse accueil petit dejeuner.” In other words, they need someone who is willing to arrive at the hotel bright eyed and bushy tailed at 7:30 in the morning to greet guests at breakfast. The woman on the phone, Laurence, told me that she would need me four mornings a week, two hours per morning, for a whopping eight hours per week. (oooooh…ahhhhhhh). I quickly analyzed my situation: FCC, you have no job. You are soon without parental support. Novotel and Mr. Auchan hates you. No one else is begging you to work for them. Getting up early sucks. Remember you have no job.
After my five second self-analysis, I took a deep breath and said “oui” I’ll do it. Laurence instructed me to bring a white button down shirt, SKIRT, and flat black shoes. I made do with what I had and arrived at the hotel at 7:30am the next morning…as bright eyed and bushy tailed as possible…with enough cover-up on to hide my rapidly growing under-eye bags. Laurence took me to the breakfast room and then, I was working. This was on-the-job training if I’ve ever had any. Basically, I have to greet the guests with a perky, “Bonjour!” and then ask for their room number. Usually they don’t remember, or can’t say it in French, so I impress them with my amazing English skills. The guest is relieved that SOMEONE speaks a decent language around here and can get them the extra spoon that they need or the double espresso that has been calling their name since they woke up this morning. (They secretly love me for this, and the guest and I exchange a silent bonding moment together). Once I have been the room number nazi, it is also my job to fill up whatever is empty: orange juice, coffee, ham and cheese, croissants, eggs, you name it, I re-fill it. When guests are done, it is my pleasure, at zero dark thirty to clear their trays and dishes and take them to the kitchen where Laurent (not to be confused with Laurence) puts them in the washer etc. Laurent is the helper guy in the back who comes up to my shoulder in height and runs around the kitchen saying, OOOH laaaaaa, je ne peux plus la…..ooooh laaaaaa! (ooh wow, I can’t take it any more…..etc). He’s overly dramatic and I love him for it. Besides the fact that I have eye crusties when I get to work and that guests get annoyed with me for asking them their room number twice (this happens when I forget a face), I do like my job. I speak more English than French while I’m there and I’m done with work by 9:30am.
That was my happy introduction. Don’t worry, the drama is coming.I got a call from Laurence yesterday. Well, not A call, as much as SEVERAL calls. She wanted me to call her back RIGHT away. Something was very wrong. I could hear it in her voice and see it in the fact that she had called six times. So I call her back and she says, “FCC, you don’t have the right to work.”
Uh, yes I do.
“No, you don’t have the right to work. You have to come to the hotel right now and pick up some papers from me and then you have to go to another office to get another special card in order to work legally in France.”
Are you sure?
“Yes, I’m sure. Come now because you can’t work until you have this card.”
I’m on my way.
I’ve just gotten out of dance class and I’m a nasty mess, but I jump on the metro and arrive in twenty minutes in front of the hotel. Say Bonjour to the women at the front desk and take the elevator to Laurence’s office. It smells like rotting cigarettes (do you feel the drama mounting??)
Laurence is in another private office that is on the other side of her office…this would be Olivier Name has been withheld’s office, and I believe that he is the big cheese/director of the hotel Mecure. In other words, this man is important. I shake his hand and apologize for the inconvenience.
He responds: “Are you trying to send me to prison Mademoiselle?!”
Me: No no, I’m so sorry, I had no idea! In fact, I called the director of my program and she says that I have the right to work. She is even faxing you the paper that says so.
The fax arrives. It is the same paper that Monsieur has right in front of him. I realize that my director is a num-nut who has no idea about the students she is directing, nor the legal side of them working in France. As a result, she is trying to send Olivier to prison. This is obviously HER fault.
Olivier and Laurence explain that I have to go to the Cite Administrative. I must bring my carte de sejour, my student ID card, a letter saying that Hotel Mecure is hiring me, and a stamped envelope. I take the letter, shake their hands, and leave the hotel. I am told to call them back when I receive my card which should be within a week. But knowing that I am in France, I am obviously multiplying this time period by two. Until then I cannot work, and I will not receive a check because I have already worked four days illegally and Olivier could go to prison if it is recorded that they paid me. Wonderful.
Fast forward to this morning. I jump on my bike and ride to the center of town. I go to the worst physical therapy of my life. My doctor asked me how is was and I basically told him that normally when I get massages I can feel it and that maybe he has a different method that I don’t know about. I would call it the “I’m massaging you, but you wouldn’t know it” method. He didn’t like my comment and told me that he has his own way of doing things and that if I didn’t like it….blah blah blah. So I’m burning bridges and it’s not even 11 am yet.
After I go to the Prefecture to get information about whether or not I have to return to the United States to renew my carte de sejour. I wait in a long line that reminds me just how Un-French I am only to find out that they “aren’t sure and I should call back later.”
(For those of you that don’t know, I am staying in France for another year because I got accepted to teach English next year to elementary and high school students in Toulouse!!) (the one good thing in this email…)
Then, since it is now 1:30 and the Cite Administrative is open, I ride my new velo (bike) on over there. By now, I have been riding all over town and I’m wishing that I had splurged and gotten the gel seat. I find the Cite Administrative, building B, and walk on in. I meet a woman who is in dire need of lip balm and say Bonjour. I tell her that I am an etudiante etrangere (foreign student) and that Hotel Mecure wants to hire me. She smiles and her lips crack. I give her the letter from Olivier. Her smile fades. I’m not sure if it’s because she is in pain or because there is something wrong with my letter. Sadly, it’s the latter. She says that the date that marks the first day of employment is missing. There is the final date (sadly July 4, I’m out of work!). But no beginning date. And that, she says, “doesn’t work for her.” My tension is mounting and I’m wondering if I need to find another physical therapist to get rid of the knot that is growing in my neck area.
I call Laurence and explain that the letter is not working out for lip balm lady. Well, she says, you’ll have to stop by this afternoon to get a new letter. Then, you must go back to the Cite Administrative to drop off the new information. I wait for another call telling me that Olivier has written a new letter. I velo it back to the hotel (I have now gone back and forth and back and forth too many times). As I enter his office, he is yelling into a speaker phone, sounding important. He hands me the letter, I shake the man’s hand, and before you know it, I’m on my velo again, biking my booty back to the Cite. I have to get there before 4pm when they close for the day. The French have a 35 hour work week, in case you were wondering. A typical office is open from 9am-11:30am and then from 1:30pm-4pm. Please notice that lunch is two hours. This basically leaves you screwed if you actually have a life and don’t have a lot of free time to be stopping by offices at times that are convenient for them. But that is another gripe, for another story.
I’m back at the Cite. I park the velo, and walk in. The lips crack again upon seeing me enter the office. She is obviously impressed with my velo skills and power over the mighty Olivier. I give her all of my documents and she hands me a receipt. She says that I will receive my card in about eight days. (so, 16). I am not allowed to work until I get it. Fortunately, Laurence and Olivier are going to save my place and Laurence will be the bright eyed and bushy tailed hostesse for the next week or two. She must hate me.
Problem number two. I am looking for an apartment. I have wanted my girlfriend, Amandine’s apartment ever since I saw it way back in October. It’s big, high ceilings, has a WASHING MACHINE (a rarity in studios here!), is clean, new, and is right in the VERY CENTER of town. Basically, your dream apartment. I’ve been holding out on saying yes to other apartments because of this one. I’d been waiting to hear from Amandine so that I could go and look at it to make sure that everything was fine. Then I wanted to go to her agency and tell them that I would take it, here and now. So, I call Amandine. She’s giving an oral presentation and is afraid she is going to miss her train to Paris, so she can not meet with me at the time we had originally discussed. However, she has already informed the agency of her departure in June and so I can go directly to see them myself.
I arrive at the agency. I tell them that I want to talk to someone about Amandine’s apartment. A woman in a very blue power suit comes to talk to me. She asks me questions blah blah blah. Isn’t Amandine’s apartment nice? Oh yes, I love it too..blah blah blah. So we have come to the conclusion that we both want to live there. Then from the background pipes up a man that works at the agency. Apparently, the landlord of that apartment is saving it for his daughter next year. It’s not available. Now I’m having heart palpitations because the apartment of my dreams is slowly falling into jagged pieces of glass and stabbing me in the eye! WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT’S NOT AVAILABLE??!!!! I’m trying to calm myself down but my dream is lost and the stress is rising.
Power suit lady tells me her name is Mme. Simone and that she would like to talk to me “calmement” downstairs. She can see that she has crushed my dream and she must feel really bad about it I tell myself. I go downstairs and wait for her. I tell her my budget: 450 euros a month. Where I want to live: right next to Amandine’s apartment. What kind of apartment I want: an apartment just like Amandine’s. Clear enough. She then asks me if I have a “Cautionnaire.” A what? A who? “A Cautionnaire.” Basically, someone who lives and works in France and makes three to four times the amount of my rent, who can sign my lease stating that if I don’t pay my rent, he/she will. Normally, this would be my two wonderful parents. Bo and Momo. However, we have a small problem. Neither one lives nor works in France. I thought about all of the people who I know who fit those requirements and I came up with : No one.
I looked at three apartments anyways…..but all the while I was inspecting the surrounding areas for nice parks; parks that might work well for a sturdy box that don’t require cautionnaires to live in.
With all of the recent events, I just wonder why I picked Dance when the Drama department was right next door. I could be writing screen plays with all this material, but instead, I have to burden you all with the re-counting of the tales in a long, five page Word attachment file.
1.19.2010
Petit Napoléon
We all know the story of the little French emperor Napoléon Bonaparte but I am fairly positive that you have not met his decendent, Laurent, who works at the Mercure Hotel in Toulouse.
Don't be jealous my friends, but I have.
My first semester in Toulouse was spent cramming my brain with French. Eating, breathing, sleeping French. My throat burned from trying to correctly pronouce the "R" like the French. My lips were in a permanant "kiss me" position from trying to say the "U" like the French. My head pounded after four hours of Histoire de la Femme en France. My hair and clothes stunk of cigarettes like the French. I was ... integrating.
Because I had already completed four years of university in the states, this year was actually my fifth year of college - which made me old in comparison to the other students. I was only 22 but I might as well have been 82. I didn't care about the 18-and-over French drinking laws and I didn't care to partake in bar hopping which would permeate my clothes and hair follicles with additional fumer. Plus, the reality of graduation and becoming an adult began to plague my thoughts. I needed a JOB.
The only problem is that when you are a foreigner you aim far lower than your CV reads which is how I found myself serving the petit déjeuner at the Hotel Mercure with Laurence, my boss, and Laurent, the Petit Napoléon.
A word about French names. The French love assigning a gender to everything. The computer is male, the table is female. A chair is also female and so is the tablecloth. If there is a male name, like François, there is the female equivalent - Françoise. There is Raymond and Raymonde, Pascal and Pascale etc etc. And this is how I found myself hired by Laurence and then under the dictatorship of Laurent. I was 19th century France and Petit Napoléon was the emperor of my petit déjeuner service!
When I arrived at 7am in my pressed shirt, gray skirt and flats, Petit Napoléon was already bustling in the kitchen and mumbling under his breath. Ils mangent comme des cochons! Merde alors! Ils nous faut plus de pain! He loved that he was the ruler of the kitchen and breakfast room and insisted that we do the "bise" when we said bonjour in the morning - a moment of politesse followed by aller! le pain! Il faut remplir les paniers!
I learned how to say teapot and scrambled eggs, yogurt, tray and grapefruit juice. I learned how to ask for guest room numbers in both French and German, and I could fake it in Spanish if I needed to. My legs were speedy and my espressos were strong!
Despite the fact that this was a three-star hotel, the scrambled eggs came in cafeteria style microwave containers with plastic peel-back covers which Petit Napoléon taught me to microwave until they were just un-runny enough to serve. He felt very strongly about managing his scrambled egg stock for the week and would rant and fume about the "Chintooks" (derogatory French word for Chinese folks) who a tout bouffé!!!!!!!! Merde! Putain! On n'aura pas assez pour demain!! I learned to distribute scrambled eggs wisely and mastered the French art of announcing without care that sorry, we were out. No more eggs. Désolée Madame.
Hygiene was not at the forefront of Petit Napoléon's policies during his reign. He was a genie de petit déjeuner - a revolutionary of hotel breakfast service. Bacteria didn't matter as long as the guests checked out before the E.Coli set in. If a pineapple chunk called to him in the fruit salad tupperware, then damnit he would stick his hand in there and dig it out! Then he would offer one to me. And then he would dump the entire contents into the punch bowel and command that I set it out on the buffet. Voila! Les fruits!
He ran a tight ship that Laurence was proud of. She would beam at his undying love for breakfast and his motivation to serve it better each day. She was also aware that without me, Petit Napoléon was powerless, a monarch without his followers, and I secretly felt that she appreciated my 19th century qualities. She was so happy with my work as an assistante de petit-déjeuner that she offered me a full-time contract, a CDI - contrat de durée indéterminée. But unlike Petit Napoléon, for me this job was just that - a job - one that I could leave fulfilled by having learned new breakfast vocabulary and French work ethic.
On my last day of petit dej service, Petit Napoléon took off his crown, gave me the bise and said, "tu ne veux pas faire ça toute ta vie. Tu as plein d'autres choses devant toi."
Merci Laurent - may your eggs always scramble, may the Chinese never eat them all, and may there always be extra pineapple in the fruit salad.
Don't be jealous my friends, but I have.
My first semester in Toulouse was spent cramming my brain with French. Eating, breathing, sleeping French. My throat burned from trying to correctly pronouce the "R" like the French. My lips were in a permanant "kiss me" position from trying to say the "U" like the French. My head pounded after four hours of Histoire de la Femme en France. My hair and clothes stunk of cigarettes like the French. I was ... integrating.
Because I had already completed four years of university in the states, this year was actually my fifth year of college - which made me old in comparison to the other students. I was only 22 but I might as well have been 82. I didn't care about the 18-and-over French drinking laws and I didn't care to partake in bar hopping which would permeate my clothes and hair follicles with additional fumer. Plus, the reality of graduation and becoming an adult began to plague my thoughts. I needed a JOB.
The only problem is that when you are a foreigner you aim far lower than your CV reads which is how I found myself serving the petit déjeuner at the Hotel Mercure with Laurence, my boss, and Laurent, the Petit Napoléon.
A word about French names. The French love assigning a gender to everything. The computer is male, the table is female. A chair is also female and so is the tablecloth. If there is a male name, like François, there is the female equivalent - Françoise. There is Raymond and Raymonde, Pascal and Pascale etc etc. And this is how I found myself hired by Laurence and then under the dictatorship of Laurent. I was 19th century France and Petit Napoléon was the emperor of my petit déjeuner service!
When I arrived at 7am in my pressed shirt, gray skirt and flats, Petit Napoléon was already bustling in the kitchen and mumbling under his breath. Ils mangent comme des cochons! Merde alors! Ils nous faut plus de pain! He loved that he was the ruler of the kitchen and breakfast room and insisted that we do the "bise" when we said bonjour in the morning - a moment of politesse followed by aller! le pain! Il faut remplir les paniers!
I learned how to say teapot and scrambled eggs, yogurt, tray and grapefruit juice. I learned how to ask for guest room numbers in both French and German, and I could fake it in Spanish if I needed to. My legs were speedy and my espressos were strong!
Despite the fact that this was a three-star hotel, the scrambled eggs came in cafeteria style microwave containers with plastic peel-back covers which Petit Napoléon taught me to microwave until they were just un-runny enough to serve. He felt very strongly about managing his scrambled egg stock for the week and would rant and fume about the "Chintooks" (derogatory French word for Chinese folks) who a tout bouffé!!!!!!!! Merde! Putain! On n'aura pas assez pour demain!! I learned to distribute scrambled eggs wisely and mastered the French art of announcing without care that sorry, we were out. No more eggs. Désolée Madame.
Hygiene was not at the forefront of Petit Napoléon's policies during his reign. He was a genie de petit déjeuner - a revolutionary of hotel breakfast service. Bacteria didn't matter as long as the guests checked out before the E.Coli set in. If a pineapple chunk called to him in the fruit salad tupperware, then damnit he would stick his hand in there and dig it out! Then he would offer one to me. And then he would dump the entire contents into the punch bowel and command that I set it out on the buffet. Voila! Les fruits!
He ran a tight ship that Laurence was proud of. She would beam at his undying love for breakfast and his motivation to serve it better each day. She was also aware that without me, Petit Napoléon was powerless, a monarch without his followers, and I secretly felt that she appreciated my 19th century qualities. She was so happy with my work as an assistante de petit-déjeuner that she offered me a full-time contract, a CDI - contrat de durée indéterminée. But unlike Petit Napoléon, for me this job was just that - a job - one that I could leave fulfilled by having learned new breakfast vocabulary and French work ethic.
On my last day of petit dej service, Petit Napoléon took off his crown, gave me the bise and said, "tu ne veux pas faire ça toute ta vie. Tu as plein d'autres choses devant toi."
Merci Laurent - may your eggs always scramble, may the Chinese never eat them all, and may there always be extra pineapple in the fruit salad.
1.07.2010
Watch for Falling Rock
My friend Sunny Life's recent blog about Olivia Fig Newton reminded me of a similar experience I had as a kid growing up that I recently relived with my family...here below is my Dad's favorite rendition of the story of Falling Rock best recounted on car rides to camping trips particularly when taking the mountain routes:
Once upon a time there was an Indian Chief and his daughter the Princess. It was time for the Princess to marry and the Chief wanted to find her a suitable husband. He gathered the two elligible young men in the tribe - Little Bear and Falling Rock and told them that whoever returned from their hunt with the largest kill would win his daughter's hand.
Both Little Bear and Falling Rock set off on their hunt while the Chief and his daughter awaited their return. Weeks passed but eventually Little Bear returned proudly with a large deer slung over his shoulder. The Chief was impressed but as he promised decided to wait to see what Falling Rock brought back before declaring a winner.
Time went on with no sign of Falling Rock, forcing the Chief to award his daughter's hand in marriage to Little Bear. Falling Rock never did return, but from that day forward the Chief put signs all over the land with hopes of finding Falling Rock and returning him to their tribe.
So now you know why, when taking the mountain roads, you always see "Watch for Falling Rock."
I didn't realize that this story was a pile of doohicky until I was 18!!!!!!!!!! (which I am not proud to admit but it does add to the hilarity of it all).
Thanks Dad - and don't worry, we'll go snipe hunting next time I'm home.
Once upon a time there was an Indian Chief and his daughter the Princess. It was time for the Princess to marry and the Chief wanted to find her a suitable husband. He gathered the two elligible young men in the tribe - Little Bear and Falling Rock and told them that whoever returned from their hunt with the largest kill would win his daughter's hand.
Both Little Bear and Falling Rock set off on their hunt while the Chief and his daughter awaited their return. Weeks passed but eventually Little Bear returned proudly with a large deer slung over his shoulder. The Chief was impressed but as he promised decided to wait to see what Falling Rock brought back before declaring a winner.
Time went on with no sign of Falling Rock, forcing the Chief to award his daughter's hand in marriage to Little Bear. Falling Rock never did return, but from that day forward the Chief put signs all over the land with hopes of finding Falling Rock and returning him to their tribe.
So now you know why, when taking the mountain roads, you always see "Watch for Falling Rock."
I didn't realize that this story was a pile of doohicky until I was 18!!!!!!!!!! (which I am not proud to admit but it does add to the hilarity of it all).
Thanks Dad - and don't worry, we'll go snipe hunting next time I'm home.
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