Just when I thought . . .

that I should really, truly declare this blog dead, something else pops up which compells me to comment on the State of Americans (a group in which I emphatically do NOT include myself, after reading this article): Just Let It Soak In.

My favorite quote: "You must remember that . . . half of the population is dumber than average. Included in that are people who may have been flummoxed by existing towel technology."

My underlying question: dear God, what's wrong with you people?!

Oddly Enough . . .

I moved back to the U.S. one year ago today.

It's hard to believe that it's been a year already, but it's also hard to believe that it's been only a year. I never experienced any huge culture shock with my move, and yet I still don't feel fully settled into my life here in Minnesota.

To mark the day (and cross something off my interminable list of things I need to do to re-integrate into American society), I went and got my Minnesota driver's license today (my DC license was still valid until 2011) and also updated the address on my car registration (the title had my temporary address from Minneapolis last summer). They asked if I'd ever had a MN license before, and I told them yes, but the last one was cancelled in 1997. That was too long ago for the number to still be in their system, but they said, "Welcome back!" just the same. That was nice.

I have been welcomed back with great affection and openness by many friends here, and that has made my transition much easier and more pleasant. And while I've rediscovered many things from my homeland and my native culture which resonate in my soul, there are also many things which make me long for France. To name a few: intrusive service at restaurants and stores; bad yogurt; the difficulty and cost of finding decent bread, pastry, and food in general; . . . topics I've been meaning to post about for some time and may still get to one of these days.

One year back, and my home is still where my heart is: solidly divided between two countries.

The Irony

I'm not much of a nature-lover. I think nature is fine and all, but it's just not something I'm inclined to devote much time or energy to learning about or, well . . . cultivating. In college, my friend W and I agreed that there's really no point in knowing the names of different kinds of nature, so we took to calling all birds "robins". Or "ducks", if they happened to be on the water when we saw them.

I used to have some houseplants when I lived in DC, but I had to leave them behind when I moved to Paris, and I never got around to buying new ones there, partly because I didn't have a good place to keep them in my little apartment, and mostly because it's really not fair to a living thing to be subjected to my neglective abuse (I used to sit and stare at my plants in Washington while I was watching TV and think, "Wow. They're really brown and dead-looking. I should probably water them." And then not water them for another week or so. I didn't have very many plants to leave behind at the end, there.).

So one of the things that's been strange for me, with my return to Minnesota, is being surrounded by nature. There's just a lot more green space here, and I'm closer to it, than anywhere that I've lived for the last 15 years. It's weird, but nice, to be able to see the stars at night. And I have to admit that I enjoyed watching the trees bud this spring, and watching the, um, robins build their nests in the tree outside my bedroom window. I finally succumbed to all this natural charm and bought a few hanging baskets of flowers to gussy up my front porch. The flowers are not, perhaps, as well-tended as some, but I've had them for over a month, and they're not dead yet, which is a big accomplishment for me.

I was away this weekend, and this morning I peeked out to see that the flowers were looking a bit limp, and surprise! There were a couple of birds sitting in one of the baskets. I went out to the porch, and the birds immediately flew away. This evening, after a very long, hot day, I thought I should probably take some water out to my dehydrated little blossoms. And I saw that one of the same birds (from the Mourning Dove branch of the robin family, I believe) was sitting in the same basket. The bird flew away again, but when I took the basket down to water it, this is what I found:

Now what?! I'm no baby-bird killer, but I'm not exactly thrilled with the idea of the Mama and its future fledgling(s) setting up home in my somewhat expensive basket of flowers for the rest of the season. My bird-expert friend is away all week, so I couldn't call him to ask what to do. I decided it was too risky to try to remove the nest myself, so I went ahead and watered the flowers around it. I'll see if Mama comes home and take it from there.

This is definitely way beyond the limits of my nature comfort-zone. But I guess that's what I get for moving back to the farm.

A Dark Secret, Shared

Many of you may not know that I like filling out forms. Especially tax forms. My strain of Particularity lends itself to fascination with detailed rules, and there's no better way to feed this dark hunger than with tax forms and instructions. And as sick as I know that makes me, it is a very handy obsession to have when you're living overseas and having to deal with the tax laws in two countries, including the extremely arcane IRS rules for U.S. taxpayers living abroad.

But I admit that even I was feeling intimidated at the thought of filing my 2008 taxes, where I would be dealing with a half-year's residence in two countries, plus filing as a new, part-year resident of Minnesota, plus moving expenses, etc. So I was pleasantly surprised that it only took me a few hours to complete both my U.S. and Minnesota returns on April 14 (I could have done them on the 15th, but it's never a good idea to wait for the last minute! For example, my French taxes don't have to be filed until June 18, so I imagine I may start them as early as tonight.).

I am expecting a nice refund on my U.S. Federal taxes, and it recently occured to me that the IRS has had my return for almost two months now and should be ready to send me money by now, so I went online to check on the status of my refund. I got a message that my return has not been processed because my Social Security number and/or name was wrong. I checked my copy of the return several times, confirmed that both were correct, and then called the IRS to find out what was going on.

It turns out that my name and Social Security number were fine, but that I had supposedly miscalculated my taxes, and the U.S. government wants to give me back about $2,000 more than I had requested. Really?! According to the IRS, my $355 in capital gains qualifies me for a different tax calculation (right . . .), and this mysteriously morphed into an additional two grand for me. I know W's tax policies favored the rich, with lots of capital gains shelters, but this really seemed out of line!

So I just spent an hour on the phone, talking the IRS agent through the calculation of my foreign earned income, and of course, my initial calculation was right, and the IRS was wrong.

Let me repeat: I was right, and the IRS was wrong. How sick is it that the satisfaction of writing that almost makes up for the lost $2,000?

From My Soapbox

A GAO report has found that it's more expensive to send U.S. food overseas to poor countries than it is to buy food locally. Let's file that one under "Duh!"

To those of us (and I include myself here) who like to use our charitable dollars and euros to support noble causes like feeding the hungry in developing countries, it's important to remember that sourcing does matter. Look for aid programs that try to buy local food and products whenever possible, and consider donating to programs that support local agricultural development (read why here), instead of bad U.S. ag policy.

And yes, this message was brought to you by a U.S. "expert" shipped overseas at a fairly high cost to help people. Sshhhhhh.

This Little Piggy Went to North Africa

It's been interesting to see how some other countries are dealing with swine flu. On the flight from MSP to Paris, all the passengers had to fill out a one-page questionnaire. I can't really tell you much about its content, other than that even in an Ambien- and jet-lag-induced stupor, it didn't seem complicated. I think it just asked for my name, flight number, and home and destination addresses. Or something. I filled it out and gave it back to the flight attendant, and my former homeland welcomed me with yummy yogurt.

Then I flew to North Africa. The lines for passport control kept shifting, and after waiting in line for about 45 minutes (at the end of 18 hours of tiring travel), I was somehow the very last person in my line. The immigration officer looked through my U.S. passport and asked where it had been issued. "Paris," I replied (I'd had it renewed at the U.S. consulate while I was living there). She immediately exited her booth and told me to follow her. Back to the "special" offices where they take the hardened criminals and other undesirables who are about to immediately be shipped out of the country. "Is there a problem?" I asked nervously. "No, you just need to talk to someone." Not at all reassuring.

Then she took me to the office marked "Public Health" and told me to sit down, and a couple of men in white lab coats told me that they wanted to give me some information about swine flu. They took my passport from the immigration officer, added my name to a list, and asked why I was in North Africa and where I would be staying while I was there. It seemed prudent to mention that I was working to help the People of North Africa, in conjunction with the Powers That Be in their country. They gave me a leaflet and my passport and let me go. As I was leaving, I noticed that each of the people who were at the end of the immigration lines was being brought to the health office--apparently the officers were too lazy to do it until the crowds were through.

The leaflet about swine flu contains entertaining translations such as "This is a new type of influenza . . . witch was first detected in people in Mexico" and "Protecting measures to ovoid getting or spreading the influenza . . .". At the end, it explains that if you're sick, you should stay home and seek medical care. It gives a couple of phone numbers to call during business hours, and then gives the cell phone numbers of five public health doctors to use after hours. The following morning (less than 24 hours after I'd arrived), I got a call at the hotel from the office of public health to ask if I was feeling okay or had a fever. Wow.

I mentioned this to one of my Corporation co-workers, who lives here, and she said that the Top Guy in North Africa is interested in swine flu, and that's driving all the activity.

It's interesting that a country which--to the best of my knowledge--has had no incidence of this disease is taking it so seriously, but I have kind of wanted to ask them if their public health officials don't have anything better to do with their time. Infant mortality? Child malnutrition? Nah, let's look for sneezing tourists!

The Perennial Paris Posting

Here I am, in the ultra-modern terminal 2F of Charles de Gaulle airport, a beautiful glass building with the atmosphere of a greenhouse. OK, there is air-conditioning, but it's French, and as we have already established, I have definitely been re-Americanized, at least as far as my temperature preferences and my shoe-shopping habits are concerned. But I'm on my way to North Africa, and it's not going to be any cooler there, so I guess I should shut up and get used to it.

One thing I haven't lost is my French taste for decent yogurt: as soon as my flight from MSP had landed this morning, I went through security and then high-tailed it to a snack bar to buy some Jocky Fromage Blanc (literally "white cheese", but it's eaten like yogurt, with sugar, and is very, very delicious). I'm thinking I probably need to go get a good baguette sandwich before I board my next flight. Jambon beurre ? Mixte ? Or . . . maybe they'll have rillettes, with cornichons! Mmmmmmm . . .

And I've had several lovely conversations with France friends this morning. Does it really make sense to pay 50 euro cents per minute on my French mobile (I've already spent over 30 euros--probably about $40--on calls this morning) when I could call all these people for free from my Vonage phone in the U.S.? Absolutely! Somehow, it's much more satisfying to talk while we're in the same time zone.

Updates: P and A are doing well. Isabelle and EJ and the boys are getting ready to move to California in August, to spend 2 years there, so that'll be a fun place to visit them. My other friend I is traveling a lot for her job with nGo (the first place I worked in Paris), and she has to work more directly with my former boss there. She has my deepest sympathy. I also called the Office (the last place I worked in Paris) to say hello to my friends there, but no one could talk, because they're crazy busy, trying to finalize a huge project bid that has to go out tomorrow (and on which, I'm pretty sure, the company's survival literally depends). I'm SO glad I'm not there for that!

So my life is looking pretty good these days. Now I'm going to go get a good French sandwich, which will make it even better!

She Shoes, She Scores!

And the winners are . . .

The shoes on the left were chosen over seven other pairs as the winner in the category of "Summery Sneaker/Mary Janish Shoes", while the shoes on the right took first place, out of eight, in the category of "Comfy Black Slide Shoes". The other 14 contestant pairs are resting comfortably in their boxes and will soon receive an all-expenses paid trip back to their homes at Zappos and Lands End.

(Ann suggested in a recent comment that I am to be praised for my non-laziness in returning items that don't work for me. Unfortunately, it has nothing to do with non-laziness and everything to do with financial survival. My credit card bill shows that I ordered about $1100 worth of shoes in the past week; it is my fervent hope that the approximately $1000 worth of shoes that I'm returning will get credited back to my account before my next billing date!)

For those of you who called and texted in to vote for the silver sneakers, they really appreciated your support, but unfortunately, sexism is alive and well here at Native Observation, where female voters always carry the shoe-selection demographic. Men were unanimous that the shoes were great and totally wearable; women (who all voted by e-mail or personal conversation) all confirmed my own opinion that the shoes were very cute and that I would probably never wear them. Plus, I decided that the hot pink Mary Janes would be cooler, temperature-wise, for the summer; are more versatile since they're aqua-shoes; and were less than half the price of the silver ones. I am, however, going to try to find the black version of the silver sneakers in my size when I get back from North Africa in a couple of weeks.

So there you have it, the view from inside the decision-making process of a Particularist!

Imelda I Am

In case any of you are wondering what I've been up to in the 2+ months since I last blogged, today I received 12 pairs of shoes that I ordered online, and I have four more pairs on the way. If I'm lucky, I will actually end up with three pairs that fit well enough and are cute and comfortable enough to keep.

Have I mentioned lately how much I love zappos.com? Express delivery (I often get my orders in less than 24 hours) and free shipping both ways mean that I can order from them like I shop in a shoe store: I order multiple sizes and styles of the same type of shoe, try them all, and then ship back whatever doesn't work. Woo hoo!

Is it safe to say that my American consumerism gene has been fully reactivated?

But more importantly, am I a person who can wear silver lamé sneakers? For some reason, when I ordered them, I thought that by "silver", they meant "pale gray", and normally, I wouldn't even consider something this blingy. But they're right here, and they're so comfy . .

Whad'ya think?

UPDATE: There is indeed more glitter involved than Zappos let on. Here's my own photo, which will give you a better idea of why I'm hesitating:

Existential Questions

Here I am, in West Africa again, until April 3. My guidebook assures me that the southern part of this country "has two rainy seasons: the first is from April to mid-July. . . . Harmattan winds billow out of the Sahara between December and March, and the hottest time of the year is from February to April." Do we all remember how much I hate heat and humidity? Good. Now it's time to ask ourselves some existential questions (EQs).

I spent the last week in lovely North Africa (which I promise to tell you about another time), where it was in the 70s and 80s, mildly humid, and I sweat up a storm. Last night, I took an overnight flight from North Africa to West Africa, with one stop in Wester Africa. Many of the people on my flight were wearing sweaters and coats. A woman sitting next to me, who boarded the plane in Wester Africa, where the outside temperature was 28° C (82° F), was wearing a shearling jacket.
EQ: Was I flying with a plane full of crazy people?

When we landed in West Africa at 5:30 am (you know, the coolest, freshest time of day), it was also 28° C (82° F). According to weather.com, it is currently 91° F outside, with a dew point of 77°, and a heat index of 104°.
EQ: Why does God hate me so much?

The airport was like a sauna, and stepping outside the airport was like stepping into a better-heated sauna. Then I got onto the hotel shuttle, where we had to sit and wait for about 15 minutes, to see if any more hotel guests were on that flight. The outside air blowing in through the open door of the van felt like a fresh, cool breeze compared to the interior temperature of the van. Of the many places that sweat was streaming from my body, I noticed that there was actually sweat pouring inside my ears.
EQ: Where was this sweat coming from? Do I actually have sweat glands in my ears?

The air conditioner in my hotel room emits a high-pitched and very annoying squealing noise whenever it's turned on.
EQ: Is it really worth running the a/c--wait! Sorry. This isn't an existential question. It's a rhetorical one.

On Time

Last Sunday, when the U.S. switched to Daylight Savings Time, I was resetting my "good" watch when the knob suddenly stopped making the hands turn forward. Today, I finally got around to taking it into a repair shop. The guy there told me that I had apparently stripped the teeth off a central cog, which would be an expensive repair. He recommended that I just set the watch by turning it backwards, until that no longer works, and then bring it in to be fixed. That sounded like a sensible approach, especially since, he reminded me, "You only set your watch twice a year!"

I thought about that for a moment, and then told him to go ahead and repair the watch now, and I'll pick it up when I get back from my upcoming business trip. Why? Well, I leave tomorrow, and in the next 3.5 weeks, I will be changing my "cheap" watch from Minnesota time to:

- Atlanta time, then to
- Paris time, then to
- North Africa time, then to
- West Africa time, then to
- Paris time, then to
- Cincinnati time, then to
- Minnesota time.

I guess there may be a reason that I've stripped the teeth off a cog in my watch.

Tragic Tags

When I moved back to the U.S., my very lovely parents gave me their old car, which used to be my car, before I sold it to them when I moved to France (my family thinks of cars like adopted children, which must never leave our family so long as we both shall live). They transferred the title into my name, and I inherited not only my sweet little Sentra, Simon, but also his very cute license plates: HWT 088.

I consider this is a great licence plate, not only because 8 is my favorite number, but also because it was very easy to remember, HWT obviously standing for Becky Hewitt, who was in first grade with me.

The tags had to be renewed in February, and I assumed I would just be getting a little "2010" sticker to put on the existing plates. But no! They sent me entirely new license plates (and sent them to the wrong address, ignoring the "Change of Address" form that I had filled in and submitted along with my check for the tag renewal), with a horrible, tragic new number:
341 BDC.

What's wrong with this tag? Let me count the things:
1) Nary an 8 to be seen!
2) The numbers come before the letters, which is Not As It Should Be in Minnesota.
3) Not only is the number odd, it's practically prime (divisible only by 11 and 31).
4) BDC isn't an obvious and easy-to-remember abbreviation for anything (although it's slightly better than "BDO", which is what I initially thought it said, and which clearly stands for Body Odor).

I Have Been Assimilated

My transition back to being fully American seems to be very nearly, if not totally, complete, as evidenced by how I spent my Saturday:

1) In the morning, I drove to the hardware store. Did I mention that the hardware store is 3.5 blocks from my house? And that I was not buying anything bulky or heavy, or going anywhere else on this trip? Nope, I drove 7 blocks round trip just because it was a little cold out*, and I didn't feel like walking.

2) For the first time since I moved to the Twin Cities, I went to the Mall of America, one of the largest malls in the world (there's an amusement park inside, if that tells you anything).

In the not-so-distant past, I would have been ashamed of myself for exhibiting these behaviors, but now that I'm American again, I think it's normal.

Resistance was obviously futile, but is it really too late for me to be saved? Is there any chance that my upcoming visit to Paris could cure this horrible and rapidly-advancing disease?!
Stay tuned . . .

*8°F/-13°C, with a windchill of -2°F/-19°C, in case you're wondering how we Minnesotans define "a little cold".

It's Here!

I'm not sure if the voting by you, my readers, had any influence, but the documentary film Pray the Devil Back to Hell has finally come to the Twin Cities! It's currently playing at the Landmark Lagoon Cinema in Minneapolis at 1:30, 3:20, 5:10, 7:10, and 9:30pm, and since I'm not sure if it'll be here for more than a week, I'm planning to go tomorrow (Sunday) afternoon. Let me know if you'd like to come along!

UPDATE: This is a really, really good movie. It gave me some much-needed hope about Africa.

OBG: Frencher and Frencher

OBG = Oldies But Goodies (recycled material)


I've finally begun my formal reintegration into the American Healthcare System, but before I start pontificating on that, I thought I'd share (or repeat, if you've known me long enough) one of my more memorable interactions with French Healthcare. The following true story is from an e-mail that I sent on February 1, 2005:
__________


Hi everyone,

It occurred to me recently that it's been a while since I've sent out one of my mass e-mails regaling you all with Tales of Life in France, simply because I don't seem to have many tales to tell these days. Why is that, I wondered? Is it because I'm unemployed, and now that I've discovered a channel playing reruns of "Law and Order" every weekday (you really haven't lived until you've seen Briscoe and McCoy dubbed into French!), I've become a total recluse and no longer have any interaction with those wacky people known as the French? Or . . . is there something darker at play here? Could it be that I no longer NOTICE the wackiness that surrounds me? Could it be that I'm (gasp!) getting Frencher?!

The degree of my cultural integration was thrown into sharp relief last week by the arrival of a newcomer from the States. "L" is the friend of a friend, and she's in Paris for 5 months to study French. I've been helping her get settled in and figure things out . . . how to get an internet connection, where to buy oatmeal, which brands of anti-perspirant don't sting after shaving . . . you know, all the basic information needed to survive as an American in Paris.

On Friday, L and I went to a movie and out for a drink with a German friend of mine who's lived here for years. We were all sharing funny stories, and I began to recount an odd-but-true incident that happened to me a few months ago. The following is a vaguely approximate transcript of that conversation. Any alterations were made for the amusement of my readers.

*****
Stephanie - "My doctor always has her dog with her at the office, and . . ."

Others (interrupting) - "WHAT?! A DOG?! In the DOCTOR's OFFICE?!?!"

S (confused) - "Yeah, well, you know . . . French people love their dogs. They take them everywhere."

L - "Isn't having a DOG in the DOCTOR'S OFFICE kind of a hygiene issue?"

S (thinks about it) - "Huh! Well . . . I don't know. I don't think the dog normally comes into the EXAM room, he mostly just hangs out in the office, under her desk. He's just a little lap dog, a bit yippy, but cute. Really, it seems pretty normal for him to be there. . . . But anyway! One day I went to see the doctor because I had the flu or something, and Sasha (the dog) was really nervous and yipping every time anyone moved. The doctor said that that morning, some workers had been installing a new window in an upstairs apartment--she just has a small office in a residential building--and they dropped a sheet of glass, and the noise totally traumatized Sasha, which was why he was acting so nervous. He was lying on a chair right behind the door, and when I got up to leave, I guess my opening the door scared him, because he flew out of the chair, latched onto my leg, and bit me! The doctor didn't see it, she just heard him yipping and said, 'Sasha, be quiet.' Stephanie: 'Doctor, your dog just bit me on the leg!' Dr.: 'Really?' I point to my thigh, from which I've just removed the vicious little fur-ball, and say 'YES!' The doctor glances down at my pants leg, doesn't see a hole, pats me on the leg, and says, 'Oh, you'll be fine. Have a good day!' And all I could think was, 'Do you not understand that, as an American, my cultural instinct is to sue you for this?!' "

Others (stunned silence) - "?!?!?!"

Stephanie - ". . . I mean, don't you guys think that it's kind of weird that the doctor didn't even want to look at the wound, to see whether the skin had been broken, and maybe disinfect it or something?"

German friend (finally regaining capacity for speech) - "Stephanie, do you still go to that doctor?!"

Stephanie - "Oh. Well, yeah! I really like her! I mean, in the end, the doctor was right, it wasn't THAT big a deal. The dog only broke the skin a LITTLE, and of course I had a big bruise on my thigh, but I had actually forgotten about it by the time I got home that day, and later it took me a while to figure out where the bruise came from. I just think Americans get too paranoid about germs and stuff, you know?"
*****

To recap: I was bitten by my doctor's dog, in my doctor's office. I was surprised that the doctor didn't offer to look at and disinfect the bite. However, I didn't think that (a) it was strange that my doctor brings her dog to the office with her, or (b) this might be a reason to find a new doctor.

So, does this mean that my attitudes are becoming Frencher? Get back to me on this!

Hope you're all doing well!

Love,
Steph


_________

And here's a photo from last January of Sasha in the waiting room, trying to get back into the doctor's office:

Making the World a Better Place

Readers who also frequent the blog Going 40 in a 20 Zone know that limericks are quite popular over there. But they make not know that back in the day, my college friends and I were fond of ending 'most any statement by saying "Questions, comments, limericks?" I'm not sure why we said it, but we did.

Today, I was e-mailing my boss about my upcoming trip to West Africa and the fact that breaking news on our project in North Africa means that I should probably go to both countries in one trip. The timing gets a bit tricky, because I need to make sure to have enough time in both countries to get some meaningful work done, but I start going a little stir-crazy if I'm out on the road too long. And I almost always get sick when I'm in West Africa (see prior posts on food poisoning/dysentery). At the end of this tediously detailed message, I wanted to ask for my boss's approval of my travel plans, and for whatever reason, I decided that the best way to word this request was by asking, "Questions, comments, limericks?"

He replied, "There was a young lady from . . . Sorry, but Minnesota doesn't rhyme with anything."

But I proved him wrong:

The coworker from Minnesota
With traveling plans over quota
Thinks too much time in Benin
Will make her quite grim
‘Cuz they don’t have enough diet soda*.

*(With thanks to my friend "I", who came up with "soda" for the final rhyme.)

My boss wrote back with the suggestion that "green" would be a better rhyme than "grim" for the correct English pronunciation of the country in questions ("buh-neen") and would also be appropriate, given my tendencies to illness there. I'm just so grateful to have a supervisor who helps me learn new things every day!

And to the American citizens whose tax dollars financed this important poetic contribution to ending poverty.

Dastardly Disappointment

It turns out that The Most Fun Work Thing I've Done in a Very Long Time was for naught: the requirement to include the "we-won't-give-money-to-anyone-who-supports-abortion" clause is included in the Corporation's statutes and is therefore unaffected by the Executive Order lifting the international gag rule. And I'm pretty sure that changing the statutes would take, quite literally, an act of Congress.

Will we never see the end of W's dastardliness?!

La fin d'une époque

Eh, oui, mes amis. C’est une journée de double malheur : non seulement un vendredi 13, mais aussi la fin de validité de ma carte de séjour et donc la fin légale de ma résidence française.

Je sais que je pourrais toujours avoir une nouvelle carte, mais je suis triste de voir la fin de cette série-ci, que j’ai tenue depuis presque 7 ans. Et après tout ce que j’ai fait pour l’avoir, j’en veux toujours énormément à la dame à la Préfecture qui a rejeté ma demande pour une carte de résidente (validité : 10 ans) l’année dernière !

Aujourd’hui, la France me manque.

Can't read this? Either study French harder or copy the text here to get the gist of it. Although I do feel compelled to add that what Babelfish translates literally as "I want some always enormously with" is actually an idiomatic expression for "I'm still very angry at".

French Haiku

So, I just got an emergency phone call from my friend E, the pharmacist. He was filling a prescription for some guy named Jason who had just been texted a haiku in French which he could not understand, and E thought I might be able to help the poor guy out. After much time spent with Jason spelling words to me over the phone because I couldn't understand his horrible pronunciation, it turns out that the haiku was this:
Ce matin j'ai pensé
où est le beurre de cacahuète?
et tu m'as rendu heureux.

Which, as I told Jason, means:
This morning I thought
where is the peanut butter?
and you made me happy.

Jason laughed, said thanks, and hung up! How unfair is that?! Now I'm left wondering who the guy was (I'm sure you all noticed that the masculine form of the adjective "heureux" indicates that the writer was male, or else really bad at French grammar) and what exactly they did with the peanut butter!

And wondering whether there's some kind of future in using my previously unknown super-powers for translating French haikus.

The Most Fun Work Thing I've Done in a Very Long Time

So, one of the organizations I work for is going to make a loan to a poor country far, far away. The loan agreement has been being worked on for quite a while, and until recently, the organization was required by law to include the following clause in all its loan agreements:

"[The beneficiaries] will not use funds for any purpose that would violate United States law or policy, . . . including but not limited to the following purposes:
. . . to pay for the performance of abortions as a method of family planning or to motivate or coerce any person to practice abortions, to pay for the performance of involuntary sterilizations as a method of family planning or to coerce or provide any financial incentive to any person to undergo sterilizations or to pay for any biomedical research which relates, in whole or in part, to methods of, or the performance of, abortions or involuntary sterilization as a means of family planning.

I'm currently reviewing and commenting on this document. And I got to write the following comment: "I believe President Obama has issued an executive order which allows—nay, requires!—us to remove this clause."

It's so nice to be getting my country back.

Whew!

For the past several weeks, I've been seeing ads for the Liam Neeson movie Taken. At first I thought they were for the release of the DVD, but when I realized they announced that the movie was coming out in theaters this week, I got confused. I was sure I had seen ads in Paris last year for a very, very similar movie starring Liam Neeson, and it seemed odd that a movie in English would get released that much earlier in France. But I just checked, and the movie was released in France on February 27, 2008, almost a full year earlier than in the U.S., perhaps it because it's actually a French movie. So I'm not crazy, at least on this point!

Proof that it's Just Too Cold here

Today's temperature of 10°F (-12°C) is warmer than it's been lately.

And yesterday, someone moved a house across a frozen lake. A house! With a truck big enough to tow a house! On a lake!

Not Worth a Plugged Nickel

God meant for nickels to look like this:

Not like this:

I don't deal well with change (get it--change?! hahahaha!!), and my readers are expected to warn me about this kind of thing, so I don't freak out when I suddenly come across counterfeit money in my wallet.

What other horrifying mutations took place in this country while I was away?!

A Great Day

I'm verklempt. And very, very proud to be American.

No Place Like It

I had a nice, quiet weekend putting my house in order. My couch arrived a couple of weeks ago, so I could finally arrange the living room and start putting up some decorations. (The teetering towers of boxes in the office remain steadfastly packed. The tape holding them shut seems too strong for a mortal such as myself to pierce. Not that I've tried.)

Two wonderful friends donated their Saturday afternoon to indulging my obsessive-compulsive need to see each and every picture I own in every possible spot on every wall in every room. Their rewards will be great in heaven.

And Saturday evening I had a lovely dinner celebrating a friend's 50th birthday.

I spent Sunday putzing around in the living room and entry way (the entry way is the one space in my home which I now consider "finished", and in my humble opinion, it's pretty) while white, fluffy snowflakes floated gently past my window.

Then I had a cozy, comfy Sunday evening lying on my new couch, snuggled under the quilt my sister made me. While I watched TV, my mind lazily inventoried the things it saw in my peripheral vision: my little wooden statue from West Africa, my blue glass vase from IKEA, my overstuffed easy chair, my black and white photos of DC and New York, the soft glow from my North African lamp. All my favorite things from all over the world. And I realized that I had the contentment I feel when I'm in my favorite place in the universe.

Home. I haven't been here for over six months, and it's good to be back.

TIMM: Bisous

TIMM = Things I'll Miss the Most

There is another thing that I miss about France: the kissing. (No, not that kind of kissing.)

Les bisous or la bise is the kissing-on-the-cheek that the French do as a greeting, as a good-bye, as a thank you, as almost any expression of goodwill or affection between friends and acquaintances. There are lots of little rules about how bisous are done that you learn over time (Isabelle and other French experts can feel free to add or correct):

1. Generally, it's not really a kiss. You just press your cheek briefly against the other person's cheek and perhaps make a vague little kissy noise. Once in a while, you'll come across someone who does actually kiss you on the cheek, but this is usually the French equivalent of your grandma or great aunt pinching your cheek. My friend A and I have a mutual acquaintance who gives a big, wet sloppy bise, and A and I always complain to each other about it.
2. If both people are wearing glasses, at least one of you will have to take them off, otherwise you will inflict and receive injuries to your face (and possibly your fashionable frames). If only one of you is wearing glasses, they can remain on, but the glasses-wearer will need to tip her/his head very carefully, to avoid scratching the other person. The truly considerate always take off their glasses, even if the other person is eyewear-free; I am not that nice and feel that the possibility of scratching the other person is much less important than the hassle to me of removing my glasses.
3. Most people begin with their right cheek to the other person's right cheek. Going in for the wrong side can lead to disaster, or least a sore nose.
4. The number of bisous given (alternating cheeks) varies according to region and social class. Two, three and four kisses are the most common, although in Rennes, Brittany, where I spent a semester abroad in college, a single bise was the norm. There's definitely an element of social hierarchy: two-bising people will usually tell you that giving three or four bises is low-class or for country hicks; four-bising people say that those who only give two bises are stuck-up snobs. Two is most common in Paris, and when in doubt, I generally do two bisous and then pause, pulling back only slightly, so I'm ready if the other person keeps going. You don't want to be the person trying to keep kissing while the other person is pulling away--that's a real faux pas!
5. Women give and receive bisous more than men. Bisous are generally shared between any two women who have an even slightly warm or affectionate relationship (relatives, friends, colleagues, acquaintances), between a woman and a man who are friendly, between two men who are family members or very close friends of long standing, and between an adult and almost any child under 12 or so. Otherwise, the default greeting or good-bye is a handshake. In professional settings, you always shake hands with people on a first introduction and generally continue to do so with colleagues until you've established a "work-friend" sort of relationship. I was often surprised at casual parties at friends' home, because almost everyone I met would immediately give me la bise as soon as we were introduced. Women who don't want to receive a kiss from someone can pre-emptively stick out their hand for a handshake instead.
6. On special occasions, bisous are even more freely given. Every year at Christmas, my building superintendent in Paris, along with his wife and their two children, would all line up in the hallway to give me bises to thank me for the tip I put in their Christmas card (I was never sure if this was normal or a sign that I was tipping too much). And when I was moving back to the U.S. and went to say good-bye to the people at my boulangérie, we all exchanged bisous for the first time.

As a good Minnesota girl who was brought up hugging close friends and family, all this kissing weirded me out at first. It seemed far too personal and intimate. But over time, I came to see bisous a warm and heartfelt way to express affection for the people in my life. And hugging--pressing my body against someone else--that seemed like a weirdly intimate thing to do with relatives and platonic friends!

After six months back in the U.S., I'm used to hugging again, but what I really miss about la bise (or even hand-shaking) in France is the constancy of it. French etiquette requires that you consciously greet and say good-bye to those around you, every time you see them, and every time you leave them. Families generally exchange bisous every morning when then get up and every evening before they go to bed. Friends give la bise every time they get together. Colleagues make the rounds of each others' offices to shake hands or kiss or at the very least formally say hello when they get to work every day. Not to do so would seem cold and rude.

You know that reputation that the French have for being cold and rude? Part of it may stem from the fact that the French see Americans as being rude, every time they enter or exit a shop without greeting the people there. That's right: in France, it's considered polite to say "Bonjour mesdames, bonjour messieurs" whenever you enter a store or a public room and "Au revoir" when you leave. I once heard a crotchety old lady on a French bus complain at great length about the rudeness of kids today after a group of teenagers got off the bus without thanking the driver and saying good-bye to the other passengers!

And the thing is . . . taking a second to acknowledge other people is nice. It makes me sad that when I reflexively say "Hello" or "Thank you, good-bye" to the cashier at a restaurant in the U.S., I often get a strange look. And it makes me sad that I'm starting to lose that lovely French reflex. I miss the unquestioned certainty that each and every time I greet or say good-bye to a friend, there will be a physical acknowledgement of our friendship and affection for each other, whether the acknowledgement be a kiss or a hug or a handshake.

I miss les bisous.

Six Months Out

So, it's 2009 now, happy new year, blah, blah, blah. The more important event that some of you may have overlooked this week was on Tuesday, December 30, 2008, the six month anniversary of my departure from France.

People these days are fond of asking if I miss living in France, and I have to fumble around to find an appropriate response, usually saying something vague like, "Oh, sure . . . but you know, I mostly feel like I'm still just getting settled in here, so I haven't had time to miss it too much yet." This is mostly prevarication, my feeble attempt to hide the dark, awful truth lurking in the depths of my soul:

I don't miss France as much as I thought I would.

Or perhaps I just don't miss France as much as I think I should.

Or perhaps missing France doesn't look and feel like what I thought it would look and feel like.

In any case, my missing of France is too far complicated and sensitive to discuss with strangers in small talk. So instead, I'll post it here on the internet.

Any good living-abroad book will tell you that cultural repatriation is often far more difficult than expatriation. With expatriation, despite its many challenges, you at least have the excitement of new discoveries, and you're surrounded by people who know that you're different and will (usually) tolerate at least some of those differences. Returning "home", you're often faced with being re-immersed in the same-old, same-old and are surrounded by people who expect you to be just like them, and just like you used to be, without really caring or wanting to hear about the ways that you've been Changed by your experiences abroad. Shortly after returning from my semester abroad in France in 1990, I remember sitting talking to a dear college friend, sobbing and telling him, "I just feel like I'll never be happy again, living in America!"

So I was fully expecting to be abjectly miserable upon moving back this time, and I'm really rather discombobulated that that hasn't happened. Yet. (A girl can keep hoping!)

My theories on why I haven't been missing France that much? Well, this is the first time I've moved to a place where I already know a lot of people, many of whom are among my oldest and dearest friends, so I've had less social downtime to sit and pine for Paris than might otherwise have been the case.

It's also true that I still don't feel at all settled here. Moving to a new city while almost simultaneously starting a new, work-from-home, part-time job means that I still feel like I'm waiting to get back to "real" work. So far, I am working enough and billing enough hours to make ends meet, but it hasn't really sunk in that I'm not on vacation and probably need to establish more a of real routine in my life. The huge towers of book boxes remain steadfastly unpacked in my office (I've sworn an oath to unpack by Monday, which is good news for you, since when given the choice of unpacking or blogging, you can see what I choose!), and I still have no couch around which to organize my living room (in my own defense, I'll point out that after weeks of couch-shopping this summer, I ordered the stupid thing back in August (!!), but the furniture store which shall go unnamed, although it rhymes with Freight and Peril, is finally supposed to deliver it next Tuesday. That's January 6. Four and a half MONTHS after I ordered it, not that I'm counting.)

And I was profoundly grateful not to be living in France while my dad was in the hospital this fall.

So I guess there are a number of reasons for me not to miss France so much, just yet. It's also possible that my missing of France is manifesting itself in more subtle ways than flashy, abject misery. For example, it's possible that my unpacking procrastination is indicative of a deep-seated, pathological desire not to admit that I'm actually living in Minnesota, and that I'm clinging to my boxes as proof that I'm ready to return to Paris at a moment's notice. But no need to give any more fodder to my more therapy-minded readers.

However, I do miss France some. And some things in France more than others. At the head of the list of What I Miss Most in France is my friends there. While I lived in France, Thanksgiving was the one and only day each year that I knew I would be fiercely homesick for the U.S. and my family. So I was very surprised that this year on Thanksgiving (the first I'd spent with my family since 1993!), I was fiercely homesick for my group of ex-pat friends in Paris. I missed the sense of coming together with my fellow country people, with our tales of triumph in finding rare and exorbitantly expensive turkey and pumpkin, for our national feast which we would generously share with the untamed natives (who were always stunned to learned that pumpkin can be made into something other than soup!). I miss the stories of hardship and heartache as we struggle with renewing our residency permits on either side of the ocean. I miss the bizarre French-English franglais mixture we all speak without even realizing it. I miss hanging out with these people I love.

The other things I miss about France were brought sharply to mind and heart during the week before Christmas, when I was in North Africa for a work trip and had access to some of those tantalizing tidbits of France which are so readily available in its former colonies. The first night there, we had a working dinner at a colleague's house, and someone picked up bread and pastries from chez Paul. Yes, the best chain bakery in France has a franchise in North Africa, and my soul was singing with the first bite of baguette de tradition--not to be confused with the pathetic "baguette traditionale" sold at Lunds in the Cities ("traditionale"?! not a word in English, not a word in French)! The chocolate macaroons were nice, too. Later, I turned on the TV in my hotel room, and my heart was made glad again: not only were the stars of NCIS and Les Experts--Miami, New York ou autre--speaking French once again, just as God intended them to*, but the French commercials were also tugging at my heartstrings! I got misty-eyed when I saw the Christmas station-identifier ad for TF1 and was inordinately pleased to watch the holiday commercial in the Bouygues ad series "Le répertoire de Mathieu".

So maybe if I feel like I haven't been missing France, it's just a case of out of sight, out of (the forefront of my) mind. But six months out of France, it's definitely not out of my heart.


*One very disconcerting part of my return to the U.S. has been trying to get used to the American (aka "real") voices on some of my favorite shows, like NCIS and the various CSIs. I started watching these shows when I lived in France, and I've found that I have a very different perception of (and less liking for) several of the characters, because of the accents they have when they speak English. For example, several of the characters on CSI: Manhattan have a strong Brooklyn accent, which automatically (to me, at least) signals "swaggering blue-collar tough guy", an image that I did not have of that character in French. Very weird.