Introducing Jasmine the Singer

Back in May of 2007, during my first spring in France, I was on my way to church one Sunday morning, when I stumbled across my first brocante. As I've mentioned before, a brocante is a yard sale where everyone in the neighborhood puts out all their wares that they are trying to clean out of their closets. You'll find the normal junky stuff that you wouldn't want at an American yard sale...but you'll also find all kinds of little treasures, and what an American would label "antiques." French people call that stuff "grandma's."

So at my first brocante, I saw an antique treadle sewing machine on a wood and black metal table. I was in love with it, but had several dilemmas: I couldn't afford it, and it wasn't a practical thing for me to buy. I thought I was only temporarily living in France, and so there would be no way for me to get it home once my contract was up. So I walked away sad. I never saw another one like it at a brocante, despite the fact that I kept looking.

This week, Joy and I went looking at a brocante that is a store...sort of like Goodwill for a 4 or 6 paned window that I could hang on my wall and use as a picture frame. While there, I saw her. In a long row of tables, covered in dust, dirt, and cobwebs, feeling long forgotten and neglected was a Singer sewing machine attached to her table. My two dilemmas from 4.5 years ago are no longer dilemmas: I could afford her, and now that I live here permanently, I don't have to worry about getting her back across the ocean. I whispered to her that I would be adopting her, and she would be able to find a home with me.

Joy found a man that worked at the store and explained that we wanted to ask about the Singer table. She pronounced Singer with the American pronounciation. He laughed and said, "Non, non, non! It's not Mick Jagger! It is pronounced Singer." (I don't know how to type that pronunciation, honestly. But the "g" sound is like "g" in "ginger," not the "g" in "good.") He walked us back over to the table, grabbed a claim ticket off of it, handed it to us, and told us to take it downstairs, and he and his guys would load it into the car for us.

(It has nothing to do with Jasmine the Singer, but I also bought a trunk/chest like the kind people used to use to travel with before the days of Samsonites and Action Packers. When I told him that I wanted the trunk as well, he said, "Jack Sparrow's chest? Okay." The guy had personality.)

Outside, we got Jasmine the Singer loaded into the back of the car, and I went back inside to pay. When Mr. Personality saw my bank card, he said, "Oh lala, a British card." I shook my head no.

"Scottish?" Non.

"Irish?" Non.

He leaned forward, squinted his eyes at me, and said in disbelief, "Wales?" Non.

He paused for a moment, completely stumped. I was amused...really, the guess-where-the-English-speaker-is-from game is usually not this hard in France.

"Australia?" Non.

"South Africa?!" Non.

"I give up." Really?

I tell him, "America!"

He laughed at his oversight that he'd name all the others, and forgotten about us. I supposed he figured I was a tourist, and American tourists just don't frequent his shop and buy Singer sewing machines.

We got Jasmine the Singer home and settled into her spot on my living room wall where she can be on display for all to see. I gave her a nice warm bath and man, does she clean up nice! I looked up her serial tag number and found out that Jasmine was born in Kilbowie, Clydebank, Scotland in 1917.

I love her. You can see her in all her glory HERE.

Monday

It's Monday morning, and I'm hoping that this week will see all of what got started last week get finished this week!

Several have asked, so I thought I'd put it on the blog for all prosperity... I went back to the bank for my rendez-vous, and was able to change my branch. Once that was done, I explained about my card, and asked sweetly if the woman could call the branch in Bez for me to have them send the new card here. She said she would! I got my rent payment set up, and tried to set up to pay for the internet and was shut down. We'll try that again this week.

I was finally able to pay for my metro pass (despite several gypsy beggar children standing around my machine making me quite nervous as I put 8 50-euro bills into it).

I am making headway in the house.

Still haven't dealt with the electric company. Still haven't mailed in my visa paperwork. Still haven't even set up my scanner/printer at my desk, much less done any work at the desk.

But it really is coming along. Eventually it will be finished, the whole apartment, and I will post pictures. Perhaps by next Monday!

But as it is Monday morning, I need to go get ready for work... Here's to a productive week!

Life Overseas Just Takes Longer

My to-do list upon arrival in Marseille:

1. Go to prefecture to begin visa renewal process.

2. Go to the post office to mail postcards.

3. Go to the metro office to purchase annual metro pass.

4. Go to the bank to change branches and set up rent withdrawal payment.

5. Go to the grocery store to buy food.

6. Go to the housing stores to buy necessary stuff for house.

7. Call electric company to give them the start number on the meter.

8. Go to bank to pay for internet/phone.

9. Clean house.

10. Set up house.

I thought the first 8 could be done in the first two days. Then, at the end of the second day, I remembered...I live overseas. When will I ever learn?

I did go to the prefecture to get the paperwork to begin my visa renewal process. So I suppose I could check that off. But I need to do the paperwork, and who has time to do that when I have all those other things on my to-do list to do? Surprisingly, the prefecture actually only took 2 hours of my day, did not include waiting at line from 4am (glory), and did include the nicest government worker ever.

At the post office, however...I could only buy four stamps instead of the needed five, because I only had enough coins for four, and I wasn't willing to wait in the long, grumpy people line for one stamp. So I will need to return to the post office another time.

At the metro office, I was handed what will be my pass as soon as I pay for it by loading it into the machine...which I cannot do because I discovered my bank card was missing. So I am metro-card-less for the moment.

At the bank, I had to make a rendez-vous. So I should be able to cross that item off my list tomorrow.

I tried calling the electric company with the number posted (by the electric company) next to the meter...it's a no-longer valid number. So I will need to GO to the electric company whenever I find some time.

I haven't had time to go grocery shopping yet. Thankfully, the camelridingcowgirl and Classy Spice brought me some food to get me started.

Yesterday, though, I decided to run to the store to buy a dustpan, mop, mop bucket, and some toilet bowl cleaner. I went to the grocery near me, remembering that I'd seen mop buckets. When I got there, they had mop bucket, mop sticks (but not the mop bottoms), and toilet bowl cleaner, but no dustpans. Hmmm...better go to another grocery store.

At the bigger grocery store, they had dustpans and mop bottoms, but no sticks or buckets. So I purchase the dustpan, and figured I'd go back and buy the rest at the first store. I didn't buy the mop bottom there because I didn't realize at the time that the first didn't have the bottoms. I remembered the buckets and the sticks and assumed the bottoms would be there too. Upon returning to the first store, and seeing that there were no bottoms, I realized that I would not be mopping the floors for another few days.

In America, you just hop in your car, drive to Wal-Mart, and get what you need to clean your house. In France, you walk all over creation, pulling a shopping cart behind you, and still end up not getting what you need.

Life just takes longer overseas.

Banking Bleux

While I was still in Bez, I received an email from my French bank asking me to to come in for a rendez-vous (in French, that just means 'meeting'). I went in and explained that I would be moving to Marseille after the summer, and so the very kind lady informed that I would need to change my 'agence' (branch) once I arrived. Little did I know how much I would come to hate that word and how many problems would rise out of what she'd just told me.

While in Paris, it came time for me to pay the August rent at my Marseille apartment. "No problem," thought pragmatic American me. I went to the local agence of my bank and explained that I would like to set up a monthly rent withdrawal out of my account.

"Is this your agence?" I was asked.
"No, its in Besancon, but I am in Paris for the summer and will be changing my agence to Marseille once I move there in August."
"Sorry, but we can't help you. You can only do business from your agence."

French bureauracracy vs American pragmatics.

After a whole bunch of hoopla and run-around, Hugs was able to pay my rent for me at her agence. Now fast forward to my first day in Marseille, where, I'd made it a top priority to go the bank and change my agence.

But first, I went to the metro to purchase my annual metro pass. And when I opened my wallet, I saw to my shock...my French bank card was missing. None of my other bank cards, just the French one.

I am one of those people who is meticulous about my wallet. I have the kind that keeps my bills flat. It has a compartment for receipts. And for transportation tickets. And each bank card has it's own pretty little spot. Why was one spot empty?!

I explained to the metro man that my bank card was missing and I would need to return later to pay. At the bank, (where I waited in line forever because the teller woman wasn't going to tell me that no one was working the line I was waiting in), I explain that (a) my bank card is missing and (b) I need to change my agence.

"This isn't your agence? I can't help you then. You need to go to your agence and report your missing card there."
"But my agence is in Besancon, and I just moved yesterday, and I was coming today anyway to change my agence."
"Well, you need a rendez-vous to change your agence, and the earliest one I can give you is Friday."
"But what about my card? What if it was pick-pocketed and someone is stealing my money? Can't you cancel my card from here? You're all the same bank."

"Oui, madame, we are the same bank, but not the same agence. You will need to contact your agence about your card."

I stared at her in exasperation and frustration, until she finally said..."you can call this number and report your card missing. They will cancel it for you." Well, lady, why didn't you tell me that in the first place? Probably for the same reason she wasn't goung to tell me no one was working the line I'd been waiting in... Why answer a question that hasn't been asked?

You'd think my banking bleux ended there, but oh no. It goes on... So I call the number and explain that my card is missing and I would like to cancel it. The very nice man lets me know that they will mail my new card...to my agence.

I explain that I just moved and have a rendez-vous to change my agence. "Oh my, this is complicated," he ponders, (while I respond in my head, "it wouldn't need to be if yall would drop this whole agence autonomy business...and mail my card to me instead of to the bank"). He decides that I will need to call the bank in Bez, and make sure they know that the card needs to be sent to Marseille, and that I need to go to the Marseille agence today and re-explain the whole sitch, so that hopefully...my new card will get sent here.

Then, to just top the whole thing off, I called America to activate my new American bank card that just arrived, and was told that the pin number would arrive a few days later. So...I am without my French bank card AND my American work bank card.

Those are some serious banking bleux.

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Paris at Midnight

When I found out a few months ago that I would spending the summer in Paris, I'll admit I had mixed feelings. I was ready to move out of the Wise's house and settle into my own home...in Marseille. Learning that I would be leaving the Wise's earlier than planned was good news, as was getting to spend a whole two months around the Superheroes in Paris. But...two more months in yet another place, still living out of a suitcase, away from Marseille, and...uggish sigh...Paris? At the time, not so good news.

When I left her in November 2008, I left her feeling burnt out on her. She rains alot. She's always crowded with too many people. (The city population is somewhere between 11-14 million, and add the 42 million tourists who come through each year, and well, that's alot of people.) She's bustling, pushy, stressed (or as the French say, "tiring" or "fatigant"). I had a headache for the entire two years I lived here because there was never, ever, at any time, quiet.

I would say that I have a love-hate relationship with Paris. I mean, it's Paris. Beautiful streets, buildings, bridges, parks, and the Seine. Everything is beautiful in Paris, everything. The museums are amazing, the food is amazing, the music is amazing, and there is always, always, always something fun to go do. She really can be enchanting, if you're in the right mood.

And so I decided this summer that I would focus on the love side of my love-hate relationship with Paris. I would allow her to get back in my good graces, and would not, under any circumstances, (including terrible weather that stole my summer away), leave for Marseille more frustrated with Paris than I was back in November 2008. That is why I systematically set out to have such a good time this summer, even if meant not getting much sleep. When I had a free moment from work, I'd go do something fun that I hadn't done before.

While out at the cinema at the park, Tusc told me of a movie I ought to go see, and exactly which theatre I ought to see it in. He said, "If you like Paris, you'll love this movie, and if you love Paris, this'll become one of your favorite movies ever." So I went to see Midnight in Paris at the Epée de Bois cinema on Rue Mouffetard. He was completely right.

One of the things I've always said about Paris is that I wonder what it was like during La Belle Epoque or during the Roaring 20's, or even during the Occupation. I wonder what it was like at its peak. I wonder what it was like without the extra 11 million people and the 42 million tourists. I suppose that Woody Allen wondered the same thing, because he made a movie about a guy who, just like me, would love to have seen it back then. The movie was more about who was in Paris at those times than what Paris looked like at those times, but I still enjoyed it.

Even more, I enjoyed what the main character discovered at the end. We tend to always want something we can't have. He wanted to know Paris in the 20's. The girl he met in Paris in the 20's wanted to know Paris in La Belle Epoque. He wanted that girl. His financée wanted another guy. He realized that we should want what we have. And so he stayed in Paris during his own time and enjoyed it...in the rain.

There are people who lament about wanting to enjoy my life in France because it seems prettier than their own, wherever they may be. I often lament about wanting to enjoy theirs...married with children. Who knew that Woody Allen could speak some truth into my life (and maybe someone else's who reads my blog, longing to be where I am instead of where they are) by reminding me to love where I am, even if it's in the rain?

And so I leave Paris for Marseille...content. Paris has returned to my good graces, and I love her once again. I don't look out at the rain and sigh that uggish sigh. I look forward to when I'll get to return to her again and be charmed by beauty that has wooed so many through the centuries. But for now, it's time to return to my beloved sunshine city of the south, Marseille.

And to finally, after 27 months, unpack my suitcases.

Cinema in the Park

Someone asked me recently if I've always liked old movies. I thought about it for a moment... I mean, I remember in college just loving Audrey Hepburn and it was Roman Holiday that started the dream of living overseas and learning languages. (In fact, when I placed my hand in the Mouth of Truth in Rome, just like Audrey had done in the film, I began to cry because I was only 25 and "all my dreams had come true already." My friends laughed at me and told me to dream bigger dreams.) I finally answered my friend that yes, I supposed I have always liked old movies...I just forgot for awhile that I did, and in the last two years or so, that old interest has resurfaced.

Something that goes along with the liking old movies is a small dream I've always had and somehow never did when I lived in San Francisco...to go to the cinema in the park. Well, one day, I was scrolling on the internet looking for stuff to do in Paris that I hadn't done before, and stumbled upon...cinema in the park, for free...every night for a month every summer! How had I not discovered this before?! As I've talked with other friends who live here, none of them had known about it either.

I looked through what was showing each night, and to my joy and delight, found that they were showing a 1949 classic called On the Town.

I sent out a text to a bunch of people to invite them to join me, but...Hugs tends to fall asleep during movies, the Superheroes were busy catching up from returning from vacation, the Trainers had guests in town, and so it ended up being Tusc and me. The website had said that the movie would start just after sundown, and I wasn't sure exactly what time that would be, or how crowded the lawn would be, so we got there around 9 and spread our blanket out in a prime spot. At 9:30, they blew up the giant inflatable screen.
Turns out, cinema in the park is a very Parisian thing to do! There were almost no tourists there at all. The Parisians had their picnic dinners with them (baguettes, cheese, deli meat, wine, and fruit), and just lounged around talking, laughing, and enjoying the evening. I was thrilled to be somewhere the tourists didn't seem to know about, to see Parisians being Parisian, and to have a nice evening with no clouds in the sky. As it got darker, I even saw some shooting stars! When does that ever happen in Paris?!

We thought it was dark enough for the movie to start at 10, but apparently the girl running the reel did not agree, so it didn't start until 10:30. Gene Kelly, Frank Sinatra, Vera Ellen, Ann Miller, all filmed on location in New York...it was so good! I clapped my hands in giggly delight several times. Like in the pretty ridiculous song, Prehistoric Man, when Ann Miller wears the prettiest dress ever, and shows why she was one of the best dancers of the 20th century. Another fun moment was laughing with all the metro-riding Parisians about Miss Turnstiles (translated in the subtitles as Mademoiselle Metro).

I had to leave a little early, because, when the clock struck midnight, I was worried about not being able to catch the metro home in time. As I rode home on the metro, still thinking about Miss Turnstiles, I was amazed to see a different Paris than I normally do. I'm not usually out after midnight...but the Parisians were! They were smiling and laughing (not normal during the day on the metro), waving goodbye (instead of giving the little cheek kisses), dressed uber-casual (instead of uber-chic), and talking up a storm. It added a little more bliss to my evening.

Should I return to Paris next summer, I will be hitting up the cinema in the park again.

Summer Weather

So I've commented several times on Facebook about the lousy weather we've had in Paris this "summer." I say "summer" because I will forever rememeber 2011 as the year that I missed summer altogether. Very little sunshine, temps rarely above 70 degrees, and entirely too much rain. And while in the states, I know yall have been suffering from 100+ temps for over a month...the fact is that I like heat. I like sunshine. I like summer. And I get grumpy when I don't get it at all.

Below is a video that a Parisian took of the downpour that came 3 days ago. I'm telling you...this weather is for the birds. It's August 8th, and the temp outside is 64 and there are howling winds.

One more week until Marseille!

The most random museum ever

Culture shock is a funny thing. It can just creep up on you out of nowhere. Especially when (or because?) you are are not expecting it whatsoever. Sometimes we don't expect it because it's an English speaking or Western country, and so we think, "They're like me here, I won't culture shock." Sometimes we don't expect it because we haven't had much culture shock in the past, and thus, must be immune. Sometimes we don't expect it because we've been in that place for so long, we ought to be way past something cultural shocking us. The latter happened to me today at the museum.

First of all, it is free Sunday. On the first Sunday of every month, many of the museums in Paris are free. Since there are still, after all these years in France, several museums that I have not been to, I decided to join the crowds and hit up a museum. I looked up online last night about the few I hadn't been to yet, and decided on the Museum of Decorative Arts (to see "the beautiful in the useful". I understood it to be free on free Sunday.

Turns out I was wrong.

So once I arrived, discovered that it wasn't free, I had to go about decided what kind of ticket I wanted to buy. The brochure explained that there was the museum, the nave, and the Camondo section. You could buy a ticket for just the regular part of the museum, or just the nave (temporary exhibits), the two together, or all three. I decided, since I was already paying money, might as well buy for all three.

When I approached the ticket counter, I explained that I wanted the 3 way pass. The man corrected me and said that I wanted the Rivoli pass (which allows for the museum and the nave). No, I said, I'd like for the 3 way pass. And then I pointed to it, where it was listed on the wall, just to clarify.

"But it's not open on Monday or Tuesday," the man says to me.

"That's fine. I'd still like to buy it."

"I can sell you the Rivoli pass," he continues. I begin to feel confused.

"Can you not sell me the 3 way pass? Because that's what I'd like. To go to all three parts of the museum."

"The Camondo section of the museum is not included in this museum. It's another part of town. And it's closed on Monday and Tuesday."

"But today is Sunday...is it open today? And why do you have it listed to buy a ticket for it, if I cannot go to it?" I ask.

"You can go to...on Wednesday."

"I can't go today?"

"Yes. But it closes at 5:30. And it's not here. It's in another part of town. You should just buy the Rivoli ticket."

Frustrated nearly to tears--culture shock--that (a) this random ticket is listed as part of this museum but isn't included in this museum, and (b) that this man refuses to sell me a ticket for it, for some odd reason, I finally say, "Fine, I'll take the Rivoli ticket."

Once I had my (drama) ticket, I shook off the bad mood that man had tried to put me in, and wandered over to the temporary exhibit...which, oddly, was Ralph Lauren's antique car collection. I snagged one photo before a guard was quick to let me know that photos are absolutely not allowed. However, if you click on the link above (which I highly recommend), you can see the awesome cars that I got to see. They really were some of the coolest cars ever.

The reason I call this the most random museum ever, is that it had all sorts of exhibits...that had nothing to do with one another. And NONE of them had to do with the theme of the museum, which was how homes have been decorated throughout the centuries. So after seeing all kinds of rooms with various pieces of furniture, and an exhibit about stuff made to look like or from animals, I stumbled upon the "Playful Plastics" exhibit...which was all about the plastic inflatable toys designed by some Czech woman. The wall paper and the plastics made me a little silly.
There was an exhibit about publicities that recycle history...I think that was more interesting for the French than it was for me. Commercials and ads have way more cultural nuances that I am able to pick up on, so I just don't get the humor. There was a fashion exhibit that was so weird it scared me a little bit and I left it as quickly as possible. Then I stumbled into a jewelry exhibit, and oh my. So beautiful.

Jewelry through the ages. I was already fascinated before I even got to the Art Nouveau section. I'd never really seen any Art Nouveau jewelry...just furniture and buildings. This stuff was so pretty it about made me cry. I wanted so badly to touch it and look at it as closely as possible.
As a side note, when I went into the museum bookshop to buy a few postcards (something I do at every museum I go to), I found a book on Art Nouveau in English (!), and it had a section on the jewelry. I was so excited, until I flipped it over and saw that it cost 70 euros!!! What?! Ridiculous. I wrote down the name and decided I would look it up on amazon.com. And guess what? I found it on the French amazon (although it's coming from the US) for 6 euros. Take that, you overpriced museum bookshop!

Finally, just before I left the museum, as I was trying to find the exit (that crazy place was so easy to get turned around in!), I stumbled upon a room I hadn't seen. The Wood Room, it was called. It was so beautiful. And the best part about it...there were NO tourists in there! I found a spot to be alone for a sweet, quiet moment on a day when the tourists are out in droves.
All in all, I decided that the Museum of Decorative Arts was seriously the most random museum I've ever been to. There were moments when I was confused (the toy exhibit), scared (the fashion exhibited), thrilled (the car exhibit), blissfully happy (the art nouveau stuff), and just quietly content (the wood room). It started off rough, with my culture shock moment over the ticket, but ended with some happy sighs...and two books about art nouveau.

Summer blogging...

Once upon a time, I started a blog because I wanted to write pretty little prose about the places I wander. Somehow, over the years, the pretty little prose has gone out the window, and it's just become a "I went here and I went there" blog. Maybe one day my muse will return and bring the prose back with it.

Until then...

I went to the Chateau de Fontainebleau. Which I'd always pronounced, "fon-tan-blue," because that's how I'd heard all the other Americans pronounce it. Hugs and I stared at the sign for awhile while we were there and decided that all the Americans (us included) had been pronouncing it wrong. It's "fon-tan-blo." Leau is pronounced "lo." Beau is pronounced "bo." Thus, it must be "blo." Anyway, it cost us an arm and a leg to get there (20 euros between the train and the bus!), and well...it just wasn't worth 20 euros. We had a good time, though, as it was a beautiful day and it was good to get out of Paris for a bit. You can see the photos on my photoblog HERE and HERE.

About a week later, we went on a day trip with some friends and once again got to get out of the city. When we got in the car that morning, we had no idea where we were going. The options were...

1. The Chateau at Chantilly (been there)

2. The Chateau at Pierrefonds (and there)

3. The Chateau at Vaux-le-Vicomte (and done that)

4. The wine country in Bourgogne

As as Hugs and I have gone to several chateaux together over the summer, we decided to vote for option number four...plus it was the furthest away from Paris, which is always a good thing when the city is wearing you down. You can see my photos of Chablis, Vezelay, and Auxerre on my photoblog (just click each name and it'll take you there).

A few more blogging notes... I added a video to the Bastille Day post, and back blogged another post about the Week of Fun, and I've added a bunch of photos to the photoblog. So scroll down. Click away. And if I can ever get the videos to upload, expect another post about some fun Metro Moments from the summer.