January 31, 2010

On the Carousel at the Tuileries Claire, Corin, Anna, Megan and Erin

at the Eiffel Tower

One of my SMC students was in Paris this weekend, and she and her friend stayed with us. The girls had a blast with them; I think they are sick to death of me. We took them to the Eiffel Tower Friday night and Megan went with them to Montmarte yesterday. Today we went down to the Place Concorde, Musee d'Orsay, and walked around the Tuileries.



Let's Get This Laundry Started


Our washing machine is the size of a mailbox. So is our dryer, yet it still manages to lose as many socks as the one in the States. Laundry in France is quite a complex process. Since the washer only fits about 3 articles of clothing, laundry begins on Monday and ends Sunday evening. In addition, the water in France has a lot of lime in it. The result is that all dark clothes get bleached out, unless you add a darkening agent. Perversely, all white clothes turn gray, unless you add bleach. I haven't even attempted to figure out the chemistry behind this.










We are one of the lucky few to have a dryer; most families we know are having to line dry all of their clothes. However, it must be noted that the dryer doesn't actually dry the clothes. There are three settings:










ready to wear




ready to iron (I don't think so)




ready to hang (no, not hang yourself, hang up to dry)










It has taken me six months to figure out that the ready to wear setting is not real. In fact, none of the settings mean anything. They are just printed on the dial to make foreigners feel that they are actually drying their clothes, and to suck up lots of electricity without actually accomplishing the task at hand.










Here's what happens. You load three pairs of socks and a T-shirt into the dryer. The dryer is then full. You pick a setting, any setting. It makes no difference. Then you press the start button. The dryer starts, and then ten minutes later stops, presumably to rest. Five minutes later, the whole process begins again. Occasionally, the machine will stop completely. Don't be fooled. This does not mean your clothes are dry; it is merely a signal that the dryer doesn't feel like running anymore. Hopefully, you are home and able to reset all of the dials to their meaningless positions and start the whole process again. After approximately six hours, you might open the dryer door, hoping that your few articles of clothing are, you know, dry. They will not be dry. They will be damp. At which point you either pitch all of your clothes out the window and go buy new stuff or you trot out your handy dandy clothes rack and hang them up.










At some point, you might decide to skip the dryer part of the laundry chore altogether and go straight from the washer to the clothes rack. This would be a huge mistake. After waiting for two days for the clothes to dry, you will fold them into stiff little squares, put them in your childrens' rooms, and wait hopefully for the kids to wear them. Instead, your children will bring them out to you, glaring furiously, and inform you that the clothes are much too stiff to wear. You then begin the whole process again.










As you can imagine, this experience has led me to be very careful about what actually constitutes dirty laundry. I admit that I occasionally pretend I don't see my kids turn their socks inside out and wear them again. We also wear lots of dark clothes. This is a particularly good strategy for Erin, who views her clothing as a large, multi-colored napkin. I can also frequently be seen sneaking into the kids' laundry bins and pulling out stuff that, in my estimation, is "not that dirty."










So, when get back to the U.S., please don't ask us if we really learned our way around Paris or how many other countries we were able to visit. We were too busy doing laundry.

January 25, 2010

Nothing major to report this week. The weather has been fairly nasty, so we've been hunkered down. I did spot an elderly gentleman (early 80's?) strolling along with his cane and sporting black leather pants. As Serena Williams would say (when a streaker crossed her court at Wimbledon), "My eyes! My innocent eyes!"

Erin and were in the corner grocery last week and the owner (who very kindly stocks Rice Krispies for us) started jabbering away at her in French. To my utter amazement, she nodded and smiled and said oui. Since I am naturally suspicious, I asked her later what he'd said to her and she really had understood every word.

As I've mentioned, the girls wear uniforms to school. I really like the concept, since it cuts down on laundry and there's no drama about what to wear. However, the uniforms are made out of material roughly the consistency (and durability) of cardboard. When they complain, I usually say something sympathetic like, "I don't want to hear it," or "Deal with it."

Last week I was ironing the shirts (the only down side of uniforms) which takes me forever since I really don't know how to iron. Every time I iron one side, the other side gets messed up again so I have to back and iron that side, whereupon the first side gets messed up and, well, you get the idea. Anyway, I finally managed some semblance of 8 ironed shirts, and put them in the girls' closets. Please don't ask why the girls don't do this themselves; their idea of housekeeping is to lift up their feet when the vacuum comes by. Yeah, yeah, I've really got to do something about that. So, Claire came out this morning wearing a shirt that looked like it had been dragged through the street. I was horrified. I knew I'd done a better job than that.

I asked her why the shirt was so wrinkled. "Oh," she said brightly, "when I get them from my closet they're really stiff and smooth. I can't wear them like that, so I roll them up in a ball and mush them around in my hands until they're softer."

Yes, she's still alive. Barely.

January 18, 2010

Happy Martin Luther King, Jr. Day! I imagine that you are anxiously awaiting the conclusion to the riveting story of How I Got My Resident Permit. Here we go.

Upon arriving in France last August, I traveled to the office for residence permits. There, I waited for two hours and was finally seen by a young woman who informed me that, while all my documents were in order they were, unfortunately, not in French.

"Ah," I said helpfully, "that's because I'm American."

She was not amused. She told me that every document, including birth certificate, marriage certificate, proof of health insurance, etc., must be translated into French. No problem, I said, I can do that. No, no, she told me, now getting a little annoyed, the translation must be provided by an official French translator.

To spare you boredom, frustration and time I will fast forward over the next five months, during which time I visited the residence permit office three times and was turned away each time because:

1. My financial document translation was now out of date;

2. There was a puddle of water on the fourth floor of the building (I saw it; it was about a foot in circumference and there were four people standing around staring at it) and the entire office was shut down;

3. I was told for the first time that I need a medical exam in order to receive the permit. At this appointment, I was permitted to make the medical appointment for early January.

The morning of my appointment, the girls were very nervous. As I saw them off to school, they wanted to know what would happen to them if I got delayed and wasn't home in time to meet them after school ( 8 hours later). You see, they have acclimated very well to life here.

I got to the building where medical exams are conducted at 8:20 am for an 8:30 appointment. There was already a long line of people waiting outside the building, which had not yet opened. Recall that the French don't really want us to live here. So, they take perfectly healthy applicants for residence permits and make them stand outside in subzero temperatures for approximately 45 minutes while they inspect the building for puddles. The hope is, of course, that we will all develop bronchitis and fail the medical exam. When that doesn't work, and those of us that have survived this little test are finally admitted to the building, we wait another few hours, just to give us time to show some symptoms of pneumonia, bronchitis, or some other itis that will warrant our immediate deportation. This is actually a great system, since only about 60 percent of us are now left, cutting the workload significantly.

Finally, we are called one by one for our medical exam, which consists of a diabetes test, an eye exam, and a chest X-ray. After the blood and eye test, I was shoved in a closet and told to undress down to the waist. No gown. Then I was summoned into a large room that was filled with French technicians (male and female) and was the temperature of a meat locker. They took the X-Ray and I was sent out to wait for another hour.

Just as I was beginning to lose hope, I was summoned into an office by a tiny woman approximately 80 years old with a nasty cough. She turned out to be the doctor. She put my X-Ray up on her screen and stared at it, searching for a spot, or a clot, or a paper clip, something, anything.

"Well," she sighed "everything appears to be in order."

Then she stared at me. "Are you a gymnast?" she asked accusingly.

I was sure I had misunderstood the question, but no, that's what she wanted to know. I can only surmise that she thought all short Americans are gymnasts. Either that or only a gymnast would have the stamina and biological fortitude to withstand six months of harassment in order to get a residence permit.

Anyway, she got out her little stamp and angrily pounded it on to several forms which she then shoved at me and told me to go upstairs.

I went upstairs where a very nice woman took my form and, about two minutes later, presented me with my residence permit.

I looked around. Where was the ceremony? The band playing La Marseillaise? Where was Sarkozy? Where was my sash? My parade through the Arc de Triomphe? Almost a year and two continents of bureaucratic hell and all I had to show for it was a teeny little laminated card with a particularly unattractive picture of myself.

And here's the best part. No one has ever asked me to show my residence permit.

Lest you think that we don't love living in Paris, let me share a few positives with you.

Claire has blossomed into a mathematician, thanks to a wonderful math teacher at her school. At our latest conference, he told me how much fun she is having and pronounced her "thoroughly chuffed" at her accomplishments. Of course, I had no idea what that meant and had to look it up in my British-American dictionary. Translation: "pleased."

Erin continues to adore the 6-year old boy who lives across the hall. They play together every day (he speaks no English) and last weekend she went with his family to the park. They run back and forth between our apartments in their PJs, playing hide and seek and watching Tom and Jerry cartoons.

Megan has made some really nice friends, including one girl from South Africa and another from India. Very international. She and Claire can actually manage most of their French homework without Mom, now. Since most of you know how I feel about homework, this has greatly reduced family tension and wine consumption.

More next week!!

January 13, 2010

Residence Permit

I have very big news. On Tuesday, I received my residence permit. Some might wonder what took so long. After all, we have lived here almost six months. Why, you ask, have we only just received permission to do so?

Let me walk you through the US part of the process. Back in February of 2009, I began to gather the materials necessary to get our residence permit. You see, as an American, you are welcome to visit France for a period of up to 3 months. The French love American visitors. We spend money on stuff we think is French, but is actually made in Viet Nam. We ooh and ahh over really old stuff in the Louvre although we have absolutely no idea what the hell we're looking at. We provide the French with endless amusement as we try to navigate the metro, squinting at our maps and narrowly escaping death when the doors close on us. Finally, we allow them numerous opportunities to feel superior: the way we dress, the fact that we eat and drink while walking and driving (virtually a felony in France, although taking both hands off the wheel to smoke and talk on your cellphone is regarded with indulgent amusement), and of course our pathetic attempts to master their beautiful language. After 3 months, however, all we do is whine and the French need us to leave.

A short history lesson. In 1803, Thomas Jefferson negotiated the Louisiana Purchase (Vente de la Lousiane) in which the US paid 15 million dollars in exchange for the right of any American who wants to, to live in France. As you probably know, many famous Americans have taken advantage of this opportunity, including Ben Franklin, Ernest Hemingway, and Johnny Depp. Noted for driving a hard bargain, the French insisted that if they were going to agree to let us in, we had to agree to take the flyover states and some mosquito-plagued swampland off their hands, thereby creating the mistaken impression that the agreement was all about territory. The upshot is that the French have to let us live in their country. In response, they have developed the residence permit requirement, which ensures that only 11 of us actually make it there to live each year.

The process begins in the US. You need to make an appointment at the French consulate, which is staffed by French people, and bring with you the following documents:

Passport

Birth certificate

Proof of health insurance

Financial statements to prove that you have enough money to live in Paris

If you have children, you need to get all of these documents for them as well. Hopefully, you've documented babysitting income as well as cash gifts from grandparents, in anticipation.

When you arrive for your appointment, be prepared to wait an hour or more. Now, you might wonder why you have to wait so long if took the trouble to make an appointment.

It's not because the consulate staff are busy. In fact, they are not busy at all. There is a waiting room full of people and the consulate staff are playing computer games, chatting with their colleagues, taking a smoking break, or sitting at their empty desks looking bored. The purpose of making you wait is to introduce you to what life will be like in France. Appointments are not made to be kept. They are made to employ receptionists. The fact that you have made an appointment is completely irrelevant to how long you will have to wait.

When a consulate staffer finally deigns to see you, you will be very excited. This, after all, is the beginning of your French adventure! You might even want to say "Hi!" in your perky, American, way. Try to control this impulse. The staffer's mission is to suck every ounce of enthusiasm out of you. The happier you are, the more miserable he must make you. Don't take it personally; he's only doing his job.

After you are fingerprinted, he will ask for your documents. The important thing to remember, is that more is better. Volume counts. Make sure to bring 10 copies of everything with you. He only needs 3, but he will view your extra effort as an indication of at least a rudimentary understanding of the French system. Also make sure to bring lots and lots of passport photos. Again, while only 3 are required, the staff like put any extras on the bulletin board in the break room. They use them for darts, and for general mocking.

Examples:

"Hah! Look at her eyeshadow! So provincial!"

"Can you believe this guy? He is wearing Dick Cheney eyeglasses! Has he not heard of Armani?"

The staffer will spend lots of time looking at your financial records. Let's say over the course of a 20-year career, you have carefully socked money away in a 401K, skewed in favor of equity investments. Sure, you took a hit last year, but you're still in reasonably good shape. Whenever you see one of those programs about how much you need to save for retirement, you and your spouse exchange smug looks. You're right on track.

The consulate will see it differently. Regardless of how much you've amassed, the staffer will look at your bank statement and sneer. He might even take it and show it to his colleague at the next window and they will start to giggle uncontrollably. They are amused for two reasons.

1. The US dollar is worth about as much in euros as the guarani (Paraguay) is in dollars

2. A comfortable life in France requires a level of income typically reserved for hotel heiresses and former Intel employees.

3. Once you get to France, you will spend the monthly equivalent of a car payment on toilet paper.

So, no matter how much you have, it won't be nearly enough. The French find this incredibly funny. Remember, they think Jerry Lewis is funny, too.

Assuming all of your documents are in order, there is just one more small matter that needs to be addressed. The staffer must ask you for a document that you didn't know you needed.

Examples include, but are not limited to:

a letter of recommendation from your high school algebra teacher

an aerial photo of your house

transcripts of any appearances in traffic court (the French detest bad drivers)

any other document that you would never think of, and that is almost impossible to procure in the time left before you leave.

You see, French law prohibits accomplishing anything in just one try. If you protest that neither the consulate website nor the former consulate general (who happens to be your best friends father-in-law) said anything about needing this particular document, then you can be sure it will take you 3 or more visits to get your residence permit.

When you are told that you need to supply this document, the best strategy is to nod apologetically for your unforgivable oversight and thank the staffer for his valuable time.

When several months have passed and all of your documents are finally in order, you will be summoned to the consulate one last time. You might think, as I did, that you are going to pick up your residence permit. Think again.

Here's what will happen:

You. "Good morning. I am here to pick up my residence permit."

Staffer. "Have a seat. I am still finishing my coffee. Then I have to call my mother in France. After that, I will need a cigarette. Please be patient."

Two hours later.

You. "Good afternoon. I am here to pick up my residence permit."

Staffer. "Let me see all of the documents you have collected and presented over the last two months and I will spend half an hour going through all of them again, so that I can worry you."

Half an hour later.

Staffer. "Congratulations, Madame. All of your documents are in order. I now present you with your temporary visa."

You. "Thank you very much. I am very pleased to receive this temporary visa and very grateful for the opportunity to visit your country temporarily. However, I am planning to stay for a year and, as a result, I have applied for a residence permit, which I was hoping you could provide."

Staffer. "I'm sorry Madame, but you cannot get permission to live in France until you actually live in France. This visa will only permit you to enter the country. As soon as you arrive in France you will have to visit the National Office for Rejection and Humiliation of Foreigners to begin the process of applying for permission to apply for a residence permit."

You. "I am very grateful that you provided me with this important information. I note that the numerous hours I have spent over the last several months have been entirely without purpose. I further note that you never told me I was wasting my time. Nevertheless, I would like to thank you for all of the time I have spent preparing these documents and visiting your office for no reason."

Staffer. "Madame, you are more than welcome. I would like to caution you that the office in France is not nearly as efficient or friendly as we are here in the consulate. I would further caution you that the French office will require lots of additional documents, which they haven't even thought of yet. Of course, since they haven't thought of them, you have no way of knowing what they are. You will, therefore, have to spend hundreds of dollars and hours of time procuring these documents in the US and sending them to your French address. Finally, I would like to tell you that, beginning next Monday, we will introduce a new software system here at the consulate, which will allow Americans to receive their residence permits right here in the US. Had you waited until next Monday, which of course no one told you, you would have been much better off."

You (at this moment contemplating murder-suicide): "Would it be possible for me to start this process again on Monday, thereby avoiding the French office? I still have three months before I leave so there is plenty of time. I might also mention that all of my records are now in your system."

Staffer (visibly offended). "Of course not! That would be more convenient for you, I am sure. However, our mission is to make life as inconvenient for you as possible, thereby guaranteeing the employment of French civil servants. We have people sitting at the office in Paris who have even less to do than we do. It is important that we keep them busy."

You. "Thank you very much for briefly considering my request before rejecting it."

Staffer. "You are most welcome. Enjoy France."

Next week, I will describe what happens when you get to France.

January 3, 2010

Erin at the Paris Christmas Market

Happy New Year! Hope everyone had a great time over the holidays. Thanks to all of you that sent cards and emails; it was so nice to see pics and catch up on all the news. Rob was able to spend 2 full weeks here which was fantastic.

Amsterdam

Megan and Erin ice skating in Amsterdam

Rob and the girls outside our Hotel

We took the train to Amsterdam to spend a few days before Christmas; Rob met us there. We showed Megan the hospital where she was born, and the flat where we lived. The weather was snowy and cold and we stayed in a great little hotel. We visited the Van Gogh museum, which Claire and Rob loved, and Megan, Erin and I tolerated. Erin: "I don't like paintings by famous people; I like paintings by ordinary people."

The girls and I had brunch in a cute little cafe just off the Leidsestraat. Claire and Erin were excited to see pancakes on the menu and ordered those with a side of bacon.

After a few minutes, the waitress came back and asked: "Would you like your bacon mixed into the pancake batter?"

"No," the girls replied, "on the side, please."

"Ah," the waitress said, smiling, "the chef has told me that it is too much work to make the bacon separately. So, you will not be able to have bacon today!" Still smiling, she left to get us our drinks. The girls looked at me, mouths open. "Welcome to the Netherlands," I said.

We returned to Paris on Dcember 23rd. Even if we hadn't understood the signs, we would've known we were leaving from a Dutch train station (lots of tall, smiling people riding their bikes in the slush and whistling a merry tune) and arriving at a French station (lots of short, scowling people smoking and complaining that there were no cabs).

We spent Christmas eve and day in Paris. The Schroeders, visiting from Florence, joined us for what I claimed was dinner and we had a great time catching up on our respective expat adventures.

The day after Paris, we left for London. All of the Eurostar "difficulties" (recall that during the worst IRA years in the 70's, when people were blown up or maimed with appalling regularity, the Brits and Irish referred, understatedly, to "the troubles") were over and we zoomed through the Chunnel before I'd even had a chance for a nap. Everyone was thrilled to be in an English-speaking country again. We took a bus tour, went to Mme. Tussaud's (underwhelmed), the aquarium, Buckingham Palace, saw a show (Billy Elliott), indulged my fabric fetish at Liberty, and generally had a fantastic time. My family even got me to a museum (V&A), which was a blast. It turns out, I'm not allergic to museums! I'm allergic to paintings and sculptures by dead guys! I actually like looking at furniture, clothes, jewelry, buildings, and assorted other stuff by dead guys. I hope you appreciate how I have grown as a person this last 6 months.

Favorite sighting: DNA/Paternity kits prominently displayed at the corner pharmacy. What's the thinking here? You go in to buy some ibuprofen and while you're waiting to pay, you pick up a Cadbury bar, spy the DNA kit, and say to your friend (in a British accent, of course):

"D'you know, I've always wondered about Nigel's Dad. Was it that bloody ponce I met in the pub while Giles was off at RAF training? Or that nutter who followed me round the clubs when I was out with me mates the following week? Or p'raps it was Giles after all. Nigel does have his wonky laugh. Oh, bloody hell. I get absolutely knackered just thinking about it all."

Back on the Eurostar to Paris from London, Rob and I collapsed into giggles when the train conductor got on the loudspeaker. It had to be Inspector Clouseau!!

"Welcome on zee Eurostar to Parees. Plees be careful wiv yoor luggaige. We aire vairy appy to be leaving zees stupide ceety and zees Breeteesh peeples and going back to zee beautiful ceety of Parees, where we aire not always so nice to stupide forainairs." OK, I made that last part up.