Diary of an adult runaway

Good God, they do go on!

As I'm sure I've frequently bitched about pointed out, everyday events can take longer here, simply because of the steps you have to go through. Sometimes I'm pleasantly surprised, sometimes I'm livid, other times I sigh and give them what they want.

For instance, if you want to cancel your mobile contract here, even if you're at the end of the contract, you have to send a letter (usually registered--I think they've got a scam running with the post office) and, well, basically grovel. 

Ok, not really, but that's how it feels. It also feels very flowery. My cultural thinking is, People are busy, get to the point, don't waste their time. Uh, no. Here you tell them what you want, why you should get it, remind them of the various laws concerning deleting your dossier and financial records, remind them of the law that says they have 10 days in which to comply, then once again throw yourself on your sword and pray that they'll take mercy.

I was writing one such letter last night, going by examples some wonderful souls had posted online. The last sentence, however, I changed a little and wanted to run it through a translator to make sure I hadn't made any horrific faux pas. Here's what I had in my letter:

Vous remerciant, par avance d'accueillir favorablement la présente demande, je vous prie d'agréer, Madame, Monsieur, l'expression de ma considération distinguée.

Essentially, it means: Thanking you in advance for your favorable reception of this request; please accept, Madame, Monsieur, this expression of my highest consideration.

The online translator thought for a moment then spat out its response:

Yours faithfully.

Best laugh I've had all day.

Signs, signs, everywhere a sign

On the front door to my apartment building:

When coming and going, be smarter than the BURGLARS and properly close the door...but without slamming it! Merci.

On the bus (I forget I don't just live in a quartier [neighborhood] but a republic!):

The power and the purity of the big Cosack voices accompanied by balalaikas et the Montmartre street urchin band (which I find really funny, considering Montmartre was overrun by the Cosacks in the Franco-Prussian War)

At my local caf. The Indian/French owners have a thing for 70's/80's music and have covered the walls with lyrics, sometimes incorrectly (the lyrics for Copacabana read "The heart is but north of Havana" ilo "The hottest spot north of Havana") and sometimes with commentary (check out the Smokie lyrics--and shouldn't that be Smokey?):

At a school at the base of Sacré-Coeur:

In this school Jean Roger Debrais taught the love of his motherland as a member of the young FTPF*. He died for her Decemer 14, 1943 under the bullets of the enemy. He was 20 years old.

*Francs-Tireurs et Partisans Français--the Communist Party resistance movement

At a school probably...100 yards away, on rue Yvonne Le Tac:

To the memory of the students of this school deported between 1942 and 1944 because they were Jewish, innocent victims of the Nazi barbarism and the Vichy government. 

They were exterminated in the death camps.

More than 700 of these children lived in the 18th arrondissement.

Never forget them.

France on Friday

Friday was a public holiday (something about the French--er, Americans?--kicking the Nazis out of town...V-E Day?) so I took a train to somewhere out in the 'burbs to escape the pressures of city life, then ran into this:

Then I ran into some gendarmes...cute, but so young and worried about being taken seriously that they were no fun at all:

Next I ran around in the grounds of a chateau. This one is Chantilly:

Ate an absolutely delish lunch and resisted the temptation to steal the soda bottles at the top right (lime + aqua = my colors!):

Then we headed down the road to Senlis, where I saw my umpteenth Gothic cathedral that Joan of Arc had supposedly...done whatever it was she did:

And there were horsies!:

And pretty houses:

And signs that the weather is getting lovely but summer is still a little ways away (tables set up in the parking spaces that pretty soon will be packed with cars from Paris):

There were also gorgeous turquoise doors:

And there were some who weren't lazy (hint: not me) and brought real cameras instead of relying on the iPhone (thanks, GiGi & Mimi!). A shot of the Cathedral that actually shows some detail:

Remember: when you're visiting France's royal castles, you should always act with decorum and dignity:

Or not :-)

How's this for Franglais?

Spotted in the Bon Prix catalogue:

Avec bon prix, dites STOP au shopping trop cher !

(With Bon Prix, say STOP to expensive shopping!)

I rather think that would piss off whoever's organised this protest:

People, people. The euro is the official currency. Has been for the past 7 years. Let it go.

Escape to the countryside!

Ok, remember last week when I said I was going somewhere and I'd post photos the next day? Let's pretend that today is that next day, shall we? Okay!

So, there were 5 of us: 2 French, 1 Italian, 1 Kiwi-when-it-suits-her (IOW, Kiwi when it comes to the Rainbow Warrior and women's suffrage/Australian when the Embassy party invites come out) (yes, missy, I know you're reading!), and 1 Australian-with-suspicious-American-tendencies. 3 of us jumped a train to Rueil-Malmaison, the other 2 picked us up and then we were off, laughing and shrieking, much to the consternation of the quiet Italian in the back seat, who was promptly told to cowboy up.

First we came across this (Notre Dame de whatever-town-we-were-in):

Then this:

 

And then this:

A closer look at the church:

A chateau, with the ruins of an older one looming on the hill (30 clicks out of Paris and it feels like 1000 away):

I wanted to pick some of these:

 

But instead we had lunch here:

  

Then we wandered down a lane and saw this--because of course, when you think of France, you instantly think of macaws:

 

Finally  we arrived here:

No photos were allowed inside but here's one from The Master's bedroom (it doesn't look like a great day weather-wise, but it was, about 30, with the scent of greenery and earth heavy in the air):

Bright inspiration alongside the famous lily ponds:

  

Green, green, green! And a bit more pink:

I told Elma my day would be perfect if I saw a blue dragonfly and hello! 2 of them!:

 

A long shot of the pond:

 

The last of the poppies:

This way to Chez Monet (and his loos):

We left Giverny with the parrots happy and 5 humans pleasantly tired from a day of art, sunshine, good food and great companionship. Zee life, she ees good!:

 

Ooh, fun!

 

You know when you meet someone and you immediately like them and you blah blah blah the night away? In this case, it was Aaron, who came along to our regular curry night last month and who sent out the invite to his annual garden party:

Dear All / chers tous et chères toutes
Sorry to be brief / désolé d'être si bref
Too much to do / trop à faire
Like garden partying / pique-nique au jardin, par example
Saturday / samedi, 28 June / juin 2008
From 7 p.m. / à partir de 19:00
 
Palais de Tokyo
Métros:  Iéna, Alma Marceau / Bus 32, 63, 82, 92, 80....
 
Do not RSVP / merci de ne pas répondre
Friends of friends:  fine / ami(e)s d'ami(e)s:  super
Food and booze:  even better /  bouffe et boissons:  encore mieux

Somewhere near the building above (the Palais de Tokyo~that's a temporary hotel on the top) there are little plots of earth where you can potter around, grow your own produce, get yourself dirty and happy and sun-kissed. And drink!

And thus, I will say it again: hot damn, do I love summer!

Big day tomorrow

So this afternoon we had The Meeting, run by a bon vivant Australian who reminds me of Geoffrey Rush and makes me homesick with his sense of humor. 2 things I MUST remember:

1. Keep the walkie-talkie on me at all times. (Or, as they're called here, talkie walkie. They just can't help themselves.)

2. Do not touch the prince. His Serene Highness is not so serene when he's manhandled.

Okay, so, walkie talkie, don't touch the talent...Now if I can just figure out what to do with the Mexicans.

Things that make my heart happy

Pumpkin takes some afternoon sun

Kody, tired after his Big Day Out (the boys went to get their Euro passports last week and visited Auntie Jenny's place after the vet's--much to Cherry & Phoebe's disgust)

Havaianas, pink toenails and (in orange circle) Le Temps des Cerises, open for business

The weather here is absolutely glorious (it cannot be underestimated how stuh-ning Paris is at this time of year)--kept us warm through a 4-day weekend and ushered us into this 5-day one. Wait, wait, let me say that again:

5-DAY WEEKEND!!

2 are official holidays--Armistace Day and something else, I don't know--and the other's a gimme from work. (Seriously, I work for one of the best organizations in the world.) It feels like all of Paris worked their arses off to get to yesterday evening, I know we did, then everyone--well, those who stayed in town--were ready to drink.  Elma, Philippe and I headed for the only place I know in town (apart from chez moi) that does good margaritas and chicken wings. Yes, the Hard Rock. Sad, I know, but such is the state of Margaritaville here. We all had it in our heads it was Boulevard des Italiens then got there and...no Hard Rock!!  Disappeared. What. The. Hell. Okay, let's got to Tex Mex. Closed!! We ended up instead at the closest Hippopotamus, the first time I've ever been to on and may I just say, never again. Poor service, terrible chicken wings and pina coladas without rum. A pox on their house. Then I got home, checked online and Hard Rock? Boulevard Montmartre, just around the corner from des Italiens. So how come all 3 of us independently came up with des Italiens...no idea.

Today, very quiet morning, lots of lazing around, eating Dairy Milk and catching up on some TV viewing. Part-watched Untraceable. Make that Unwatchable. Made myself feel better by panting over admiring Max on Dancing With The Stars. So hope he's back next season, I just love his ass attitude. And then, while my friends are weekending in Italy and Tunisia and Spain, I ... cleaned my apartment. Oh, yes, thrilling. But my little place on the hill is now shiny and bright and breezy, smelling luscious from the Pineapple Citrus candles and allllll ready for the painting I'm picking up from Le Temps in the next few days: a sultry, sexy Balinese dancer/musician in mermaid colors. Mine, mine, all mine! Then tomorrow, after What Happens In Vegas, I'm booking my U.S. flights. Still trying to decide when to fly out, though I'm thinking June 29. (You reading, Tee? Get that guest room ready and open up that wet bar!) That's another thing I love about the Northern Hemisphere, how we get to take real summer holidays because Christmas isn't in the middle of it all. I love hearing people's plans--but not as much as I like making my own :-)

Right now, it's still warm and there are a few people floating around outside but it's relatively quiet. Just perfect for sleeping with the balcony doors opens to get that sweet breeze.  Night!

Wait, I'm *what*?

When I was growing up in Central Queensland, we had one Chinese restaurant. Later, I thought I was horribly chic because my best friends were Greek and introduced me to all things deliciously Hellenic. (We had a good system going: Mrs. Kondilis would come and pick herself a batch of mangos from our plantation in exchange for a massive tray of baklava, just dripping with honey.) I can't remember there being any Indian restaurants when I was a kid, just one French, but we probably had some Indian products available at the local Woolies, shelved under "Ethnic"--along with Chinese and Mexican ingredients. Or should I say "maybe." I know in those days, anything not meat, potatoes and pavlova (or Bundy Rum) was difficult to come across.

Here, my local Champion has a pretty good range of non-French stuff. Chinese, Mexican, Indian, Japanese--all shelved in their own sections. Just the basics, though. Last Friday, I thought all my Christmases had come at once when I found salsa corn tortillas in the Mexican section. And then I hit the motherload. A whole end section brimming with U.K. products. Cadbury's Dairy Milk, water crackers, baked beans, mushroom soup, cheesecake mix, brownie mix, custard creams, it just went on and on--oh, and cans of Dr. Pepper which, for some reason around here, they think is a U.K. thing. I just put out an arm and swept everything into my cart. Kinda like the other guy there, whose eyes were bugging out of his head as he stocked up on mint sauce.

And then I looked up, saw the signage and laughed.

Éthnique.

That's right. Little ol' baked-bean-eating, whiter-than-white me, I'm ethnic. While I know logically that I am of an ethnicity, it struck me as funny on 2 levels. 1. I grew up in a town where "ethnic" was the rest of the world, and 2. how come every other type of food in Champion is labeled by its country of origin?

Ohhhhh, wait, it's English. Any chance to get a dig in, they'll do it.

Whatever. Call me what you want, just give me Cadbury's. ;-)

Men with guns

So yesterday, my office mate and I are on our way back from the canteen at the chateau, bellies pleasantly full, when we see a bit of a commotion up ahead, just on the pie-shaped corner where our building sits. My first thought was that the furniture lift (like the one below) we'd passed on the way had collapsed, because we could see it on the ground.

But no, they were just packing it up, so we went a little further and that's when I saw the man in a flak jacket holding the sub-machine gun. You think I'd be alarmed, but instead I was like "Ah, fuck." Because he was standing between me and the office. Another guy, this one in cammies, was standing near a piece of tape he'd used to cordon off the street on one side of our building (which leads to the Lebanese embassy), and there was a female cop in riot gear beside a car, blocking the other street--right near our door.

None of them looked too worried about anything, the cammies guy even looked to be ready to take down the tape. But the first guy kinda waved at us with the gun and said "You have to go around."

I pointed at our office. It didn't look like anything was wrong there--none of our newly installed bomb-resistant windows looked blown out. "We work right there," I said.

"Faites le tour," he said, obviously not giving a shit about our dire plight.

Yeah, not thrilled. Because of the way the streets are "planned" (oh, God, the mirth that ripples through me at writing that), doing the tour would take about 10 minutes. But you know, big man with gun. So we crossed the street. And that's when I saw the female cop was taking off her flak jacket and the cammies guy was rolling up the tape.

"Fuck this," I told my office mate, "they're packing up, let's go."

"If I get shot, I'm blaming you," she said but followed me. We then ducked behind some cars and cut across behind the cop van and into the door, with a little wave for the man with the gun.

Here's us, in kitten form:

And such, my friends, is life in Paris. Where once my heart pounded when I saw people with guns and now I backchat and think "Walk around the block on a beautiful sunny day? You MUST be kidding me!"

While we're doing photos, I saw one of these guys once:

Driving a cop car at full speed, siren blaring. Took me aback for a moment. Until then, I'd thought it was the baddies who wore balaclavas.

To take your mind off the nasties of life, here's a pic that's just unbearably cute--coming, as it does, from cuteoverload.com. I dedicate this one to you, Ms. Mac, coz it''s a Scottish Fold. And coz I know you love fluffy kitten photos!