Dull, dull, dull

Howdy all! It’s a clear, cool night in Rome. An absolutely gorgeous red moon is hanging over the hills of Abruzzo in the distance. All this from my terrace. Quite nice…and yet I feel no inspiration lately. Too tired from work and then the inevitable homework questions from DRK. I need a few more hours in the day. At least I’m reading another book…trying to research a major setting in my book and fill up my coffers of ignorance with a modicum of knowledge. Am I reaching too far? It’s all a bit scary.  

That’s it. Not much more. Life is dull, dull, dull.

A Change of Mind

I had planned this whole blog entry about cultural differences, annoyances I face every day in Italy and then I saw this video, shot all over the world. Something as simple as dancing…I dare you not to smile!

Whip

Bloody true

First, congrats to la Gringa. Finished book #2. That is a huge accomplishment and not to be taken lightly. Hot dog, that’s great news. Me, I’ve been under the weather lately. I gave blood last week and wasn’t aware that I had a minor virus at the same time. A pint down in the red stuff, the virus took charge and chased me to bed. For three days straight, it was like being car sick. Non-stop. But it’s over. And the blood donation was worth it. Maybe it’ll save someone or make that surgery a bit easier. 

And me, I’ve now given blood in 5 different countries. That’s a noble accomplishment, right?

Here in Italy, I should have learned the words for dizzy before I arrived. When the light headedness took over and I grew all sweaty and clammy while at the food table, I walked back to the nurses. “Are you fine?” The words to describe my condition escaped me so I just said, “No.” And boom, the room jumped into action. A nurse cleared the couch in the teacher’s lounge (Blood drive was in the teacher’s lounge at DRK’s school). She laid me down and threw down drops of some nasty liquid down my throat. Another nurse held up my feet. A third, the one who actually took my blood, came over to check on me. Everyone was so nice, caring, helpful. Both the nurses and the fellow donors. After a few minutes, the blood giving dizziness was gone, I chowed down and left. It was only an hour later when the viral nausea hit. Later in the day, when DRK called, she said her mother mentioned I had almost fainted. Rather than ask how her poor father was, she grew desperate on the phone and asked, “Did anyone see you? Did any teachers know who you were?” My health be damned. She just didn’t want to be embarrassed. I told her everyone saw and that I wore a nametag that said, “DRK’s father.” She was none to happy.

Oh, and a question, with all these needles and blood, why don’t the nurses wear latex gloves? 

Whip

Ta da!

I finished writing my book today.  Of course that means I finished it for the first time.  I’m sure I’ll have many more finishes before it’s actually finished.  But hey, it felt good to close that file.  I’ll start again tomorrow and on we go, but for tonight, I’m feeling mighty pleased.

In other good news…I’m still jogging (it’s been over a month) and can now go around the park twice (Whip stop laughing, I can hear you from here) without calling for the pompiers.  I got my son’s file completed for nationality at the mairie (crazy, they don’t give you anything to hang on to, so if I never see that file again, it was all just a figment of my imagination).  And Snuggy is still dieting.  

Life is good…La Gringa

Patience

We had a good run of it, but the rain has found its way back into Paris.  It always does.  I won’t dwell on it, just know that it’s there…

So as the weather is wet, I figured there was no better time to test my patience with some bureaucratic finagling in the land that invented bureaucracy.  We all know I’m not one who needs to test my patience…it’s already quite low.

 Alas, my son was born in France and has the right to citizenship — so after the citizenship papers gathered dust on my night table and then under my night table since the 8th of March 2005 (I know this as it is date stamped), I decided it was time to act.  

My logical mind told me that as we no longer had the same President as in 2005, some parts of the process might have changed.  So on Day 1 I set out to get the new and improved list of forms, certificates and notarized papers I would need to get the ball rolling with efficiency.  I checked on internet.  Nada.  It was sunny that day.  I walked over.  I was in a good mood.  It was 10 am on Friday.  

Of course, the office was closed.  Hell, 10 on Friday, who’s working?  I miraculously found someone who was in the office and asked if I could just have the list of items I’d need.

“There’s no list.”

“Surely, you must have some list.  I can’t come back empty-handed.  I KNOW I need more than nothing to get a passport for my son.”  (Damn! I had wanted to be cool-headed and already, I was snarky.)  

“You have to come when we’re open, wait on line, meet with the woman in charge and then she’ll tell you what to bring.”

“Isn’t that a little…ahem…inefficient.”

Glazed look.  Closed door.

Day 2. I went back on Tuesday (armed with the knowledge they’re open Monday through Thursday from 1 to 4).  I had everything on my 2005 list.  I was ready.  

HA!

My son’s birth certificate has to be less than 3 months old (little matter that he’s 17 and nothing, NOTHING, has changed on his birth certificate in those 17 years….he’s still my son, still with the same birth date, place and time…oh la la).

I mentioned as nicely as possible the ‘not giving out a list’ thing.  The woman said,

“It’s a law.  You have to come in first.”

“It’s a law?  You mean, they had time to make a law that you can’t give out a list?”

Let’s face it, I’m not cut out for this.  My son is already a citizen of MY country.  That my have to be enough.

It’s still raining though…so I’ll be back.  I just have to get that certificate first and that’s in another city hall. 

La Gringa..

* I took the kids to the Maria Pages Flamenco performance at the Theatre de Chaillot on Tuesday night.  It was gorgeous.  We highly recommend it.  Watch out for those glow in the dark feet!

The Logic Board has Died

More tales of computer woe! Not only does La Gringa’s poor letter “P” not work, which is a huge deal for a book about the Perils of Paulina in Panama, but DRK’s computer has just passed away. It was a quiet death, dragged out. The video card, built into the Logic Board on her Macbook Pro is no more. It was always troublesome, but I figured we could fix it. We went out to the Apple Store in Rome (sorry La Gringa, the first and only Apple Store on the old Continent is in Rome!) The Genius Bar was kind and told us no problem we could fix. The estimate? The same price as a new PC and only guaranteed for 3 months. Ah…no thank you, Apple!. So we bought a new PC, and that’s PC and not Mac. Of course, being in Italy that means I will forever be stuck with Windows in Italian. Italian, French, German, whatever. We gringos are used to this. We deal with it all the time. Trying to figure out how to get the accent marks, QWERTY vs. QWERTZ. I’ve dealt with Austrian keyboards, Swiss French keyboards, French keyboards (yes different from Swiss French) and now Italian. At the very least, Italian keyboards are baseline QWERTY. Phew! 

We are momentarily inconvenienced, however. We have been a 2 computer family, but were going to upgrade and become a 3 computer family this summer. We are now a 1 computer family for a few days. Doesn’t work. Thankfully, we pick up our new treasure on Thursday.

I only hope the “P” works. :>)

 

Whip

The P’s have it…

I feel for Whip and his book trying to find a home.  Most would-be writers read what he wrote and only see, “I wrote a book.  I have an agent.  wah wah wah.”

 It’s hard to write a book.  It’s even harder to find an agent to accept a book.  So Whip’s gotten farther than most.  (or should that be further?  Seattilite is struggling with franglais, I’m struggling with anglais!)

In any case, I am a (ahem) writer.  I should say a ‘would be’.  I’m writing a book, nearly done in fact, so I’ll make this brief and get back to it.  Here’s my tale:

A few months ago, in November, my keyboard just started losing keys.  Honestly.  I came down one morning and the s,d and n keys didn’t stick on anymore.  A few hours later the y and r were loose.  

What to do?

 Of course, as I’ve well-established, I’m not in the US of A where I could bring it back to where I bought it or at least call someone and not have them think I had lost it.  I made a bunch of false starts and finally found a Mac repair shop (the Apple store has not made it Paris yet).  Great.  I download everything on USB keys and take it in.  It’s covered by a warranty.  They’ll change the keyboard and get it back to me in 1 week.

 This is France.  I rejoice.

 I take over my kids computer.  The MSN buzzer dings every twelve seconds.  I don’t know how to turn it off. I can’t get any work done.

The store calls after only 5 days and it’s ready.  Yeah.  I pick it up.  Carry it home.  Open it up.  Yikes.  It’s a french keyboard.  Crap.  The ‘m’ is a ‘?’.  The ‘w’ is a ‘z’.  

Everything is weird, but you know what I’m ready to work with it.  Except.  Except the P.  The darn P.  It only appears every third time I hit it.  

Now I know the P is a pinky touch and those are tough, but I don’t have a problem with the a, or the q or the ; (not that I use that much).  

The P I need.  I live in Paris.  My book is about Panama.  The main character is Paulina.  It’s really pathetic.  I need this letter!  I call the repair shop and they say, they can do it in January (6 weeks later) otherwise they’ll have to pay for their mistake.  I’m nice, they’re nice.  I figure I can wait it out.  It’s now May.  I haven’t lugged the computer back over there.  I have an uber-pinky–so muscular from trying to get that P on the first try.  

All this to say, forgive me if I talk about my historical novel in anama, featuring aulina.  Sometimes I don’t have time to sell check.  

La Gringa

Franglais 101

They say 50% of English words are from the French, laying the linguistic groundwork for those ex-pat best friends, les faux amis. Some of those false friends are subtle. Some examples:

Terminate – Terminer

I mean:  I want my daughter to terminate (stop) the after-school painting so she can do sports.

The school director hears:  You want your daughter to terminate (stick with it to the bitter end) the after-school painting so she can do sports. (Sports and painting?!)

Eventually – Eventuellement

I hear:  Yes, I can finish the work in the front hall eventually (I’m really busy now, but I’ll get to it sooner or later).

The painter means:  Yes, I can finish the work in the front hall eventually (I’m really busy now, I’m always really busy, so I better say maybe, which in France means never).

Evident – Evident

I hear:  I try to do a good job, but it’s not evident (no one notices).

My French colleague means:  I try to do a good job, but it’s not evident (it’s not easy).

I replied:  But it’s so evident to me! (Meaning, I can see all the great work you do).

Did she hear?  You idiot, it’s so easy, even I can do it.

 

Sigh. Still making friends after years of Franglais lessons.

-Seattlite

 

I can’t say goodbye

I’d like to moan and groan for a second. Yanno, feel sorry for myself despite my many good fortunes. You see, I wrote a book, a pretty good one I think, got myself an agent, edited the damn manuscript to death (many, many times). Said agent then sent it out, got some interest, but no major bites. It’s six months and about 10 rejections later. I’m beginning to fear said agent might one day give up and toss in the towel. If so, should I follow along? It’s a rhetorical question, mind you, because, as the title says, I can’t say goodbye. I know I can’t. Not yet anyway. No publisher yet believes in my exciting cyber-adventure, but I still believe. Alas, I don’t count. I don’t publish books. Just write ‘em. So, I sit here on this rainy Roman night, alone (DRK’s in England and Wifey’s in Florence) and wonder, what’s next? There has to be someone out out there for me. Where are you? 

Whip

Gasping for air

The fallout from my recent trip to Asia:  I’ve seen myself in a bikini after a long winter of fois gras and baguette.  So for the first time in about 10 years I’ve taken up jogging.  My last foray into jogging lasted one time around the Parc Monceau.  The entire trip I checked out my fellow joggers wondering if they’d call the SAMU (ambulance) if/when I collapsed.  I hoped they’d call the pompiers (firemen) instead –they’re so cute.  

Well this time I’ve lasted longer.  I’ve jogged three times this week.  My speed is glacial, my endurance non-existent, but hey, you have to start somewhere.  In any case, it’s also a social experience.  I have a beautiful park just down the street with a short (I’m told-it seems fine to me!), but lovely jogging path.  Of course, being France, the gates of the park don’t open until 7 am.  When I arrive at 7 on the nose (the first morning I had an aborted attempt at 6:30), there are a knot of joggers running in circles.  Seriously, 7 might as well be noon if you’re planning on having a real run (for my run it’s fine), eating breakfast, showering and getting to work/school on time.  Then there are the outfits. Even when I’m not running, I see the joggers often while crossing the park.  In cooler weather there are one or two women in silk scarves.  You almost always can find someone jogging in some type of footwear better suited say to ‘calisthenics’ (remember those) or fashion shows.  And the french have improved enormously.  When I arrived here in ‘89 there was a guy that jogged every day in blue cowboy boots and matching neckerchief.  Now that’s looking your best.

I plan to keep this up until school let’s out or I collapse.  If it’s the latter, remember the pompiers.

La Gringa