I came up to a metro station this afternoon to a completely bizarre scene. There were men on stilts, jugglers, an African drum band, all kinds of professional photographers and videographers and a whole crowd of people all hanging out at the top of the escalators near the entrance to the metro. Not sure what it was really about, but needing to get on the metro, I asked a woman who was standing by watching if it was okay for me to push through it all to ride the metro. She told me yes, and so on I went.
As I was riding the down escalator (and the only person doing so), opposite me coming up the escalator was an entourage. I understood that someone in the entourage had to be famous and looked a little closer...it had to be a politician, because there were secret service men with earpieces all around one guy. Lots of photos, lots of video being shot, and lots of hoopla to greet him up on the street.
And one clueless American girl wondering who that man was.
I knew it wasn't former president Sarkozy; I'd recognize him. I knew it wasn't new president Hollande; I think I'd recognize him. And I don't think the mayor of Marseille would get that much fanfare. So I asked someone at the bottom of the escalator: Who was that masked man?
"The Prime Minister of France."
Oh.
That seems like someone important. Important enough to be greeted on stilts? Sure seems like that's saying something about him...
A little old woman was walking towards me on the bus. Her hands were full with bags from the market and two bouquets of flowers. With so many things encumbering her, I thought she might have a difficult time climbing up into the seat next to me. I reached my hands out, and she immediately filled them with her flowers. She put her bags into the seat and then slowly meandered up to the front to purchase her ticket. I watched her, remembering my sweet great-grandmother, and how independent she was into her final years.
The woman came back and took her seat next to me. She immediately began talking, telling me all about why she was taking the bus: just so she could make sure to get a seat. She'd come all the way down to the Vieux Port to go to the market to buy flowers, but with all the construction and tourists and what-not, there was only one flower stand. Dommage. (Pity.)
She looked at me after all this and sweetly said, "You're not from Marseille, are you?"
"No, I'm American."
"Oh, American! I love America. I went there several times. I have good friends who live in Miami. But do you know? I've been to Wyoming, too, and Calgary. Oh, I love America." She talked for a few minutes more about America, all the while enthralling my heart with soft voice, the beautiful cadence of her French, her all-white outfit with a gorgeous colored scarf around her neck tucked into her coat.
"And you, madame? You're not from Marseille either..." The Marseillais have a notorious accent, one that I can't always understand, and she...she did not have this accent. I understood her perfectly. She shook her head no, no, she was not from Marseille.
"I have lived here for more than 50 years...but no, I am not from Marseille." When my eyes waited for her town of origin, my mind was thinking some small town tucked away in some quiet region of France that I had never heard of. "Before Marseille, I lived in Africa."
"In Algeria?" I asked quietly. She nodded.
A pied-noir. I'd heard of them, but never met one. A French citizen born in Algeria when Algeria was part of France. After the war for independence, they had to flee (1962). She told me that she was 39 years old when she had to leave.
"Was it hard to acclimate to France?" Usually I am the one asked this question, not the one asking it. But to grow up your whole life in one country, and be forced to leave there, and move to a different land that is still your country...not accepted by the locals here, thrown out by the locals back "home"... seems much more difficult than to willingly move to a foreign country.
She talked the rest of the bus ride about Algeria then and how different it was from what Algeria must be like now. She's never returned. And after 50 years here in Marseille, she has acclimated to France. But you could hear it in her voice, see it in her eyes...Algeria was still in her heart.
As I stood to get off the bus, I told her what a pleasure it had been for me to sit with her today. She asked my name, and then I asked hers. "Marin. It's like the mistral...just...softer." And so she was. She blew in for a moment, thrilled my heart, and then just swirled away again.
The couch was delivered! Take Two was smooth sailing. The delivery guys found a parking space with no problem whatsoever. They were nice (and so was I). The couch fit through the door with ease. (It came in six pieces, three of which even fit in the elevator!) Here is the camelridingcowgirl enjoying her shotgun seat on delivery day.
Some have asked me, "What's left" (to get in the apartment)? Haha. Well, a stove, most importantly! Right now I'm using the crock pot and toaster oven, and surviving just fine. A dining room table and chairs. A TV. Desk. Guest bed. Quilting table. Bookshelves (that don't have bugs). Dryer. Dish washer. Decorating.
So, plenty left. But, I have everything I need to live at the moment. And grateful for it all.
Note: My French friend, Manue, has noted on Facebook that Marseille is NOT France, and this whole event would not have happened anywhere else in France. So, don't blame the French. Blame the Marseillais.
I said after the fact today that it is very rare that I have a "I hate living overseas" moment. The non-delivery of the couch was one of those rare moments. (On the contrary, I actually love living overseas...but sometimes the dramatic flair rises up.) However, hours later, my heart rate has calmed back down to normal, perspective has returned, and I am able to realize that my couch not being delivered today is not catastrophic. (Nor are the bugs that are eating my bookshelf.) The couch will get delivered at some point, and life has already gone on. But at that particular moment this afternoon, I wanted to beat my head against a brick wall, because that sure seems like it would have felt more pleasant than arguing with a delivery man in French.
Here's what happened.
When I bought the couch, they told me it would take 4-6 weeks before it could be delivered. That date would fall right smack in the super busy time of my job, but what can you do? So, when they called this week and said the couch was ready, I was very happy. Delivery on this Saturday was perfect timing. It was the Artist's birthday that day, and there were already plans for cake and killer bunnies in place. We just shifted where the plans would be, and voila! I had a waiting committee with me for the couch.
It was supposed to be delivered between 1 and 7pm.
At 6pm, the delivery man calls me and explains that he has circled the block three times and can't find a parking spot, so he'd like to come back another day. I ask him why he can't park on the sidewalk, like all other delivery men do and he simply says no, he won't do that. After five minutes of going round and round over the phone and realizing I am getting nowhere, I tell him that I'll come downstairs.
So me, the Bodybuilder, and CSI go downstairs while Pantene and the Artist stay upstairs. There is a parking spot on the side of the road with a car illegally parked in it, because the sign above it says, "No Parking Tow Zone--Except Deliveries." The delivery truck is parked in the street with its hazards on, just next to this illegally parked car. And miracle of miracles in Marseille, no one is honking out of annoyance at the delivery truck. They are just driving around him, (like normal people would do, but Marseille is not normal).
I asked the delivery man why he couldn't just stay parked right there while he carried the couch up the stairs. He said that the police would give him a ticket because of the no parking sign. I said I would stay right there and talk to the police, because it's that other car that deserves the ticket, not the delivery man. He responded, "I'll stay parked here if YOU pay the ticket the police give."
I point to the sidewalk at the corner just behind him and say, "You can pull onto the sidewalk just right there. There's no restaurant with tables on the sidewalk. There's no store merchandise out there. It's empty. You can park right there." He responds that in Marseille, one is only allowed to park on sidewalks between 8am and 1pm to make deliveries. (First of all, IKEA either broke that rule and got away with it just fine, or this man is wrong, because I have photographic evidence to the contrary.) I stare and him and ask, "Then why did your store make the appointment to deliver after those hours?"
"That's not my problem, Madame." I said, "No, Monsieur, and it's not my problem that you can't find a place to park. It's your problem because it's your job. You're a delivery man. You can drive around the block again and find another place to park. You can park just behind the building. You can park on that side street right there. You can park on the sidewalk right there. You could stay right here and have carried it up there and been done by now instead of just talking with me all this time."
Oh man. By this point, all the nerves were escalating. He told me that he'd already driven around the block three times, and he wasn't going to do it again. He'd be happy to leave my couch on the sidewalk and let the Bodybuilder (he pointed) carry it up the stairs. (I got downright mad at this point.) They were treating me like I was completely irrational for offering several solutions to this problem instead of just accepting that they would have to deliver my couch on another day, even though I explained that I'd waited all day, and I, too, have a job...that I can't just take off again to sit around and wait for hours for another delivery.
He then calls his boss, tells her that I "don't speak French well," and hands me the phone. Oh man, I was livid. She screams at me at rapid-fire pace about who-knows-what, and I just finally hand the phone back, say "Fine," (in English) and walk away. They were clearly tired, and with mine being the last delivery of the day, were NOT going to carry my three-piece sectional up five flights of stairs.
It was one of those moments, yall, when culture shock rears its ugly head. That scenario would never have happened in America. Never. The delivery truck would have been able to find a parking spot. The delivery men would not have gotten in argument with me. It would have been me who called their boss, who would most certainly not have yelled at me. In America, my couch would be sitting in my living room right now. But that instead, the French's mentality of the store is always right and the customer can just carry themself over to another store if they're not happy happened instead. And I would carry myself over to another store if I had not already paid for that couch in full.
Thus, still no couch. I have no idea when it will be delivered...and part of that is because I don't know when I have another day free to wait for a delivery until the end of the month. But, I'm not fuming about it anymore, because really...it's not that big a deal. The couch will come. At least, I hope it will come. I'd like to say that they can't refuse to ever deliver my couch, but it's Marseille. The city where banks refuse to give or take money, and stores refuse to sell their merchandise, and delivery men refuse to make deliveries.
I'd also like to thank my friends: the Artist, the Bodybuilder, CSI, and Pantene. Their presence made the whole thing so much more emotionally manageable. Afterwards, we just kept playing our game, then rode the bus along the beach to the Tex-Mex restaurant where we had fajitas to celebrate Cinco de Mayo the Artist's birthday. So much fun truly help to lift the bad mood that would have lingered after the non-delivery. My friends are champs.
(Warning: this is a very long post, so read when you have time, and make sure to watch the videos!)
May 1st is "Labor Day" in France, the day that they celebrate work by not working. (Is it wrong to make a joke that every day must be Labor Day in France?) It is actually one of my more favorite holidays in France. I mean, nothing tops Christmas, Easter, or Bastille Day, but after those...May 1st is wonderful. It's usually so warm and everyone's in a good mood out enjoying the lovely weather. It's just...pleasant.
Last October, I went to Arles with friends and saw something that peaked my curiosity. I had often seen touristy knick-knacks with a scene on them of women in traditional dress doing a dance all in a line. (You can google "arlesienne farandole" to see what it looks like.) But I'd never seen an actual picture of real people doing it. However, in Arles, there were postcards and pictures of women in traditional dress everywhere. I asked someone if the women still dress like that, and they responded, "Oh yes, every May 1st. There is a parade and a show in the arena. If you are still in France, you should come to it." Oh, I plan on it, mister!
The camelridingcowgirl, her parents and I headed over to Arles in the morning. We decided to skip the parade and just watch the show that afternoon. Once we got to Arles, it took awhile to find a place to park, but we finally did, got our tickets to the show, and then set out to find somewhere to eat lunch.
We finally decided on what seemed like a simple, typical French café. However, my oh my, were we in for a treat! We had Ocean Salad, Toro Stew, and Lemon Tart, and every single bite was delicious!
Seriously? That was one fantastic meal.
Throughout the day, we saw several of the Arlesiennes dressed up around town.
I got a kick out of this one in her traditional garb...talking on her cell phone as she headed to the arena! Hehe.
Later, we went over the Roman arena to get our seats. We were early enough to get a seat just four rows up! It reminded me alot of what I love about going to baseball games: enjoying great weather while just sitting and chatting it up with friends.
Watching the man water down the sand before the show began felt alot like being enthralled with the Zamboni driver at an ice rink. We also noted during this time that we were seated in the geriatric section: everyone around us looked to be about 75+ years old! We also spent alot of time discussing how the Arlesiennes did their hair (every single one of them had it styled exactly the same.)
"Course Camarguaise is the local version of bullfighting.
It is a summer pastime practised in many small towns around the area. There are local leagues which are reported in local newspapers.
The objective is to remove the ribbons that are attached to the bulls horns. Competitors are on foot and rely solely on speed and agility.
The bull is unhurt, and lives to fight another day."
For all the videos I shot that day, I would shoot a video for the first minute or so, and then just watch the show after that, and usually, the event would get much more exciting with time. So understand that, with each video, you are watching them warm up and it got much better. You can also hear me squealing like an excited schoolgirl in the background.
Next, all the people paraded in. They nearly filled the whole center with their horses! It was very...boring French ceremonial. It was super fun to look at all the ladies' dresses!
All the women rode side saddle, but with no saddle!
There were even little kids joining in the fun!
Lots of participants!
This woman was the newly-named Queen of Arles for the next year. Seems a bit like Homecoming/Prom Queen...
After all that hoopla ceremony was done, the festivities recommenced. The next event was called the Game of the Bouquet. We didn't quite understand what was happening until mid-way through the first round of the game. (So in the video, you'll hear me saying, "That's it? That's IT?! Oh, there's more." Basically, one cowboy will leave the pack, cross the arena, and receive a bouquet from one of the ladies. Then, two other cowboys leave the pack, and try to wrestle the bouquet from the cowboy (who often taunted them with it by waving it in the air in front of them). Whoever had the bouquet at the end would return to the lady, present it to her, and receive three bisous (a kiss on the cheek). The MC would make these loud pecking sounds into the microphone that made the whole thing so funny. Only one rider out of 11 had the bouquet stolen from him. The rider who stole it got the kisses, and his third kiss would quite a, ahem, kiss. Hehe.
You can't really see it in the picture below, but the rider is getting his kiss. I really enjoyed this whole particular event. I never knew who to root for! I wanted the rider to keep the bouquet, but I also really wanted the other riders to steal it away! Some of the "stealers" were really into it and were smiling and laughing and trying their very best to steal the bouquet to win that kiss. There were even some little guys who played, who were about 10-12 years old...too stinking cute!
I didn't take a video of the next event. When I lived in Portugal, I went to a traditional bullfight and learned all about them. I don't mind when a bullfighter is crazy brave enough to face a bull head on. But when he's up on the horse, at an advantage point against the bull, and the horse is the one more in danger than the rider, I just don't like it. I don't think it's fair. So when the bullfighter came riding out on his horse to poke at the bull with this pointy stick, I was a little irritated.
Then, all of a sudden, he jumped off his horse, and WRESTLED THE BULL TO THE GROUND WITH HIS BARE HANDS.
I was so in shock and dumbfounded I couldn't get the camera onto video fast enough. I'd never seen anything like it. Seriously. He wrestled the bull to the ground all by himself with his bare hands. I forgave him for poking the bull with the stick from the advantage point earlier. It made the bull angry and well, that just made the wrestling more impressive.
The next event was called The Game of the Oranges. The camelridingcowgirl and I had some confusion (and maybe I was a little afraid) because we really thought we heard them say that the cowboys would throw oranges up at the crowd. They did say that, but once we saw the game in play, we understood better. For this game, there were two Arlesiennes at 12, 3, and 9 oclock, and the cowboys were at 6oclock. The women would put an orange on a plate, hold it out, and the cowboys would race by to try and grab the orange off the plate. Sometimes, when they flung the orange that they grabbed (to free up their hand to grab the next orange), it would fly up near the stands. Okay, thought the foreigners...they're not actually pitching them at us for fun! Hehe. Only one of the riders was able to grab all three oranges.
The next event used a type of lance. There was a pole with a really tiny loop, and the cowboys would race toward it with their lance, and try to get the needle of the lance through the hoop. I don't think any of them were successful. (And I didn't take a video of that. My battery was starting to get low, and I wanted to make sure I at least got pictures of all the events.)
The final event was of the Arlesiennes doing a choreographed show on the Camargue Horses (all side saddle, mind you!), and it was just lovely. With how the sun was casting shadows into the arena, it was really hard to take photos/video, but a did get a little bit).
This was the camelridingcowgirl's favorite event. I think I probably liked the playing tag with the bull or the bouquet the best. It's hard to choose, because they were all so neat! I never got to see the ladies dancing, but I didn't mind. The dresses were thrilling enough, and all the other events were so much fun! Besides Bastille Day, and the Nicolas Fouquet Party at Vaux-le-Vicomte, this was one of my favorite cultural events I've seen in France. Sooo, sooo, cool.
