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 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

 

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

California Dreamin’

What do you miss most about home? This morning, a drizzly April one, this is what I miss:

An endless Pacific beach, bordered by a horizonless oceanscape - a white sand dune, warmed by the sun through a long morning fog - a walk accompanied by harbor seals, peeking from just beyond the breakers - a Sunday picnic on Kehoe Beach.

-Seattlite

A picture a day

Two days ago I got a cryptic email from my dad: Act 0, Scene 1. Attached was a picture of me the day I was born. Yesterday, Act 1, Scene 1: My first birthday. I spotted a pattern. In XX days I’ll be XX years old. And you can guess it’s one of those “major” birthdays. I’m now looking forward to seeing my life unfold before me in pictures, one day at a time.

The emails gave me a fresh sense of time, to relive each year of my life in a day. And, what a nice way to stay in touch with past, as well as present lives: a photo-buff Dad and collaborating sister.

Seattlite

Franglais 101: A word for tax day

The first sign is your sister pauses a little too long on the phone to catch your meaning. When you’re back home for Christmas, and you realize you and your ex-pat family are the only ones chatting and everyone else is staring, eyebrows knit, it’s a sure sign: Franglais has set in. That peppering of English with French words, to the point where it ruins the soup.

But there are words that just sound better in French.

One favorite is bouleversé. It means to be upset.  The imagery is there – bouler (to turn round and round) and verser (to pour).  Think of the word up + set, and you can visualize the mental discomposure.  But our word has become so banal, and doesn’t roll around your tongue like the French one:

“I am so boooooole verrrrr sayyyyyyy!”

-Seattlite

 

Mea Culpa again!

Oh dear Seatlite just posted a photo!  She’s not shy.  Dalai Lama must be sending her good good vibrations from Seattle.  She’s much more zen than moi, but hey, most are!…

La Gringa

Coco

Not thin, not fat. Coco has no eating disorders. Only feline schizophrenia. One minute she’s a cuddly pet, the next, a warrior cat and the enemy is you. She looks forlorn in the picture, but she may be planning her first pigeon massacre. -Seattlite