On Phobias, Procrastination and Strawberry Jam

I procrastinate. Not about everything although Mon Mari would probably disagree. The things that I put off are likely the same things you do, if you do; buying kid birthday presents for parties, cleaning out the file cabinet, sorting and sending the mountain of paperwork the French government requires for subsidized health care. I also procrastinate sending things by mail. I never have stamps, always have addressed envelopes floating around in my bag getting dogeared and wrinkled. This is because I have an irrational fear of the post office. Why?  I felt this way in Texas too; putting off sending that ill fitting JCrew sweater back or the baby gift to a friend far away. Thank goodness for internet shopping and shipping. It's saved me more than a few times.

To add teeth to this phobia my post office in Ireland was robbed at gunpoint more than once and now, here in France, there's the language issue. I am loathe to ever step foot in one. Have I filled out the paperwork properly? Have I packaged the parcel appropriately? Why do I feel guilty when they ask what's inside?

As you know my lovely friend Teresa sent me a big box of Texas love a few weeks ago. I felt it only right to send her one back. I bought some French stuff for her--things I thought she might like to try. I filled the box, wrapped the breakables in bubble wrap and the box sat open on the hall table, mocking me. I couldn't find the address, couldn't find the tape, the kids got into it and opened the strawberry jam, ate it on their toast. I bought more to replace it. The strike slowed things down. I bought paper to wrap the box when I bought a birthday present two hours before a birthday party last week.

So it was that I finally got myself and the box to the post office last Thursday; package full, wrapped, hideously over-taped and appropriately addressed. I juggled the box and the Littlest as I waited for my turn. When it came, I pushed the box through the big parcel window. The post office lady, POL, gave me the form to fill out. I did but did something wrong so she took it from me, ripped it up and gave me another.

happy french people who love la poste, image courtesy of www.laposte.fr


She asked me what I was sending. I told her food. She rattled off that the Etats-Unis doesn't accept food from other countries...even showing  me the paper with FDA printed on it. This got the attention of post office man, POM, at the next window. And the attention of his customers; an elderly couple who I had seen and heard arguing about something in the parking lot. All eyes on la Americaine. This won't be the typically boring afternoon errand to the post office, oooo la la.

POM: "If you send food to Etats-Unis they will open it and eat it."
POL: "No, they will open it and send it back. And you will have to pay for the return shipping."
POM: "Why are you sending food? Do they not have food in America?"
Americaine, ingratiatingly: "Yes, of course. But they don't have French food. They don't have Bonne Maman strawberry jam for example."
POM & POL & elderly couple, nodding and smiling: "Oh, yes. It is very good jam. Very good."

They asked  me what else I was sending. More out of curiosity rather than official interest. And they made suggestions. Is there any saucisson sec? "Mmmmm. Oui, oui. Cassoulet is very good.," the elderly couple joined in.
It was suggested that I could lie on the form and put soap and hopefully the FDA customs goons would buy it. POL wasn't thrilled with that idea because she said they would probably open a 2 kg box marked soap and then where would I be?
We all decided that I should take my box and put the contents into smaller boxes sending things separately so as to not draw any unwanted FDA heat. Clever.

I took my box home. And now it is sitting on the hall table again. I'm not as afraid of the post office but now I have to find some small boxes to contain the goodies. Teresa, I'm working on it. Maybe some day you'll get the post office approved confiture fraise.

I don't have to keep telling you that these conversations happened in French. Do I? Assume it to be the case. And therefore, assume that I've gotten about 1/3 of it right.

Road Trip

So we got off to a rough start. That's cool. We girls know how to carry on smiling.

We left three hours later than planned so that meant we arrived in Geneva at midnight. I'm a Texas girl so a little night time driving doesn't bother me. What was freaky though was driving through the French Alps in the dark. I couldn't see the mountains but I knew they were there, looming; our ears popped, the signs warned of steep grades, and there were slow climbing lanes. There were also long tunnels cut into the invisible mountains which the girlie loved. As we passed through one of the longer ones--1900 metres, distance of tunnels is marked just outside the entrance, we decided we were glad to be in that super cool, lit up tunnel inside the mountain together. Ma Fille vowed she'd never forget it as long as she lives.

We ate McDo in the car and I have to admit it was one of the best Royal Cheese I've ever had. We stopped for hot chocolate and biscuits and were excited by the chill in the mountain air.

And we talked and sang and did French homework.
If you've ever been to France, especially Paris, and have tried to speak French to someone, you know how they repeat what you've said, only with a French accent as if to say...'um, so sorry, I think I've understood your butchering of my language but I need to make sure by repeating exactly what you said back to you in my langue maternelle'.
It goes like this:
Brave Tourist: 'Hello. I'd like a hot chocolate please.'
Paris Frenchie: 'Hello.What would you like? A hot chocolate?'
Brave Tourist going back for more: 'Yes, please. A hot chocolate. And a croissant too, please.'
Paris Frenchie: 'A hot chocolate and a croissant? Ok.' (smirk)

I always found this type of exchange off putting. It would totally throw me off my game. But then I started to think, perhaps they're just repeating it to be sure of what I'm saying. Maybe they're just helping me to get the pronunciation right. So it's like a mini-lesson. How nice. I'm a benefit of the doubt kinda girl.

But NOW, my own daughter does it to me. Her accent is flawless. Of course it would be because she's learning how to do it in French school and she has a sponge brain with no life lessons learned/college shenanigans/late nights/wine drinking neuron damage to slow her down. So when we practiced for her spelling test in the car and I said 'un coude', perfectly in my opinion, she repeated it with French gusto, 'un coude?'. With the up lilt question mark thing as if she wanted to be sure I was saying elbow even though she knew full well it's on her list.

No more benefit of the doubt. Listen up. When they do that to you at the train station, boulangerie, cafe, what they're really doing is showing off. What they're really saying is, 'this is the correct way to say it, this is how you're supposed to get the r stuck in the back of your throat and it offends me to leave the sound of your mispronunciation lingering in the air so I have to quickly replace it with my perfect one.' Don't give up. Keep saying it the way you feel is right. After all, when they speak English we find their accents charming, sexy, foreign. We can't all be lucky enough to learn two languages in childhood. And I will remind all mes enfants of this fact when they are older and hate me.

For a little sumpin' speshal, we replaced Nancy with a fake GW Bush. So as we (finally) drove north to Suisse he guided us there. As we were running late, had been sidetracked and taken a detour we were reliant on GW to get us back on track. 'Hang a left in a coupla secs.' Ma Fille asked, 'Do you think he was a good president?' Uhm. 'Imagine how he would sound speaking French with that accent?!' We had some laughs trying it out ourselves. She'd say, 'Come on 43rd....tell us which way to go!'. To which he'd reply, 'Upa head, there's gonna be a ex-it. Leave the motorway and hang a right.'

She fell asleep at 11pm. She missed Swiss border control, the last of the tunnels and her mommy singing loud to70s music on the radio. And when we arrived at midnight and I tried to wake her she started counting in French in her startled sleep. Beautifully.

I Feel Gassy or Diesel PS

To follow up on yesterday's post outing my shame at filling the tank of my husband's car with unleaded instead of diesel....

First, I am surprised to hear so many (well four) people have done the same thing. And not all of them were women either so the laughing Frenchies from the garage can suck it.

Second, yesterday I received a text from mon amie Canadienne asking me to duhn, duhn, duhn--help her mother fill up their car because they're not in town! and are afraid of the strike induced gas shortage. Seriously? At first I thought she was playing a tricky monkey on me. I cracked up and so did my lovely, patient husband.
Then I saw the second text she'd sent that said, "OMG! I just read your post and I am scared. Our car takes GAZOLE"

So this morning I went with her mom to fill up the tank. I have to admit I was super nervous. I think I will always second guess myself from now on. I hated getting gas before, doesn't everyone, but now it has taken on nightmarish proportions. Luckily, thanks to the strike and closing of 12 of 12 gas refineries, there is no unleaded, regular gas to be found. You'd better hope your car takes diesel this week.

I do have to say though that I've found the French to be very patient. They wait calmly in lines at the Carrefour and they wait calmly in lines for diesel. I guess they're used to this strike thing. No point in getting all heated up American style. It's not going to change the wait time only make it more miserable.

My new life motto: Patience. Acceptance. Wine.