The Wimbledon Final vs. Day 2 of the Tour de France

David and I are cleaning up the apartment, getting ready for Adam and Abby's visit, and I'm in the kitchen with the Tour de France on tv. At 3:00 precisely I started flipping through the channels, looking for the Wimbledon final: Federer vs. Roddick. And I found it.

On pay television.

Already hot and irritated, I start swearing out loud at the television. From the bathroom, David says in a sarcastic, not-surprised tone: "Of course it's not on regular television. It's not the French Open. There isn't a Frenchman in the final. Why would they show it? Sports aren't important to the French. The French are important to the French."

In my opinion, the final of any major sporting event should be available to the viewing public for free. Isn't that some sort of sporting socialism? Quel injustice!

CDG vs DTW

Before I launch into the details of our week in Michigan, I have one last rant (only one?) about Air France and the Charles De Gaulle airport. Let's compare the departure process:

Leaving from CDG:
1. Arrive at airport 2, preferably 3 hours before the flight
2. Wait in line to get passport checked: 5 minutes on a good day
3. Wait in line to check in: 15 minutes. The self-checkin kiosks don't work
Bonus: at the ticket counter we learned that David didn't have a seat assignment, and we had to talk to the people working at the gate.
4. Wait in line to get passport checked by French police: 30 minutes
5. Wait in line for security: 40 minutes
We learned here that anyone on an earlier flight than ours got shuffled to the shorter lines.
6. Walk to gate: 2 minutes
This has been drastically shortened due to the completion of the new terminal earlier this year. It used to entail a very long walk and a painful bus ride.
7. Arrive at gate 30 minutes before flight, just as boarding process begins. Walk quickly to the counter, where no one is to be found, but there are plenty of other employees standing nearby checking passports for a third time, and we ask one of them. Finally an annoyed woman appears behind the counter and eyes David's boarding pass. She taps into her computer and says coolly:

"You have a seat, but it's not with your wife."

Fully prepared for what she was going to say, I already had my French answer mentally practiced in my head:

"I bought these tickets 3 months ago!"

"Well," she said, jabbing at a number on the boarding pass, "256 people checked in before you did!"

"We got here 2 and a half hours ago!" David replied hotly. No AirFrance ice queen was going to make us feel like slackers. We are responsible travellers.

"And maybe I would have checked in online if your website worked!" I added.

She returned to poking at her computer while we fumed from our side of the counter. People continued to board, and David started worrying about overhead space. Finally we gave up and walked to the boarding line.

Just as we were about to turn over our passes, the woman reappeared and said "You don't want to wait? I might be able to ask someone to switch with you." And as it turned out, the guy with the seat next to mine was standing in line just in front of us. He shrugged at the proposed change - he was moving forward in the cabin, after all - and we thanked him many times. We were one of the last people to board, and I was disappointed to find that we were placed in the middle section of the plane, not the window and aisle combination I had requested when I bought the tickets. At least David still had an aisle seat, and I finished sulking when the French couple next to me desperately needed my help to order their drinks and dinner from the American flight attendant.

Leaving from DTW:
1. Arrive at airport 2 hours early
2. Wait in line to checkin: 15 minutes
I had tried to checkin online earlier in the day and learned that both of us were without seats this time. So I had been bracing myself for another fit of whining when the ticket agent calmly informed us of our seat assignments. Next to each other.

But in the middle again. I decided to give it a try and ask if she had an aisle window available. She did not, but she did have one single window behind one single aisle, and she was willing to bet we'd be able to talk one of the other passengers into switching. Dave hesitated, but she insisted that it would be fine and handed us our new tickets.

3. Wait in line for passport check: none
4. Wait in line for security: none
5. Oooh, let's have one last American lunch.
6. Tram to the other end of the terminal: 2 minutes
7. Hang around reading, people watching, chatting, and last minute bathroom breaks before boarding.

Once on the plane, I only had to finish half of my request before both passengers in our accompanying seats jumped up and offered to move (had they been women, I would have made David ask). David got his aisle, and I got my window. Everybody's happy.

Until the plane took off and two children screamed in unison all the way to Paris. But I guess you can't have everything.

Way to Go, Air France

It's 7:30 in the morning, my flight leaves at 2:00 p.m., and I just fired up the computer to checkin online.
1. Opened nwa.com and went to "Online Checkin"
2. Entered name, confirmation number, etc.
3. Chose the flight, CDG to DTW

Easy stuff.

Then nwa.com tells me that this flight is operated by Air France, so they are redirecting me to the Air France website.

Once on airfrance.com, I received this screen:
I went back to nwa.com and started over. Back to airfrance.com, where this time I managed to be prompted for my frequent flier number.

1. Entered the number
2. Received error message: invalid

Fine, I'll try my e-ticket number

2. Received error message: the time before your flight is either too short or too long.

What? I can't checkin online 6 hours in advance?

Went back to nwa.com and started over.
Received this message:

Forget it.

French Meetings

I had a meeting today that was scheduled from 1:30 - 4:30. At 5:00, when I realized that I wasn't understanding enough context in French, my legs were falling asleep, and I had plenty of other work to do, I left. When I left the building at 6:15, it was still ongoing.

I've found this to be very normal in France. For example, every Monday my group has a team meeting. It is scheduled for 30 minutes, but every week it lasts no less than 1 hour and a half. I don't have a problem with the length, but if it's going to take that long every week, why can't we schedule it for an hour and half? Even when I start the meeting by saying "I have another meeting in an hour, will we be done by then?", they shush me and say that the meeting is only 30 minutes long. And then it takes 1h45, I'm late for my other meeting, and I'm forced to skip lunch.

The thing is, when Americans have meetings, we set an agenda, we check things off lists, and we move on. Because we all hate meetings. But when the French get together, someone presents something, and everyone argues over every single Powerpoint slide. And they're not just arguing about little issues, but major procedural stuff as well. The kind of things that can't be resolved without a management steering committee and a budget adjustment, but we're going to argue about it anyway. And in the end, after everyone is exhausted and absolutely nothing has been resolved, we decide that we still have to finish the other 75% of the presentation, so we have to meet again next week.

At first I thought it was just my screwed up group, but almost every week David is telling me about another "marathon meeting" that took half or sometimes all day. So the problem is clear: the French. End of discussion!

The French Doctor

I read once that French women live longer than any other women in Western Europe. Today I learned why: obsessive preventative maintenance.

I paid a visit to my French doctor this evening for my semi-annual "exam". In the US this uncomfortable test is required only once a year, but in France it's a twice-yearly event. I swear, if I'd known that in advance, I might not have moved here.

Like I mentioned before, the doctor insisted that I receive a series of blood tests before my visit. I honestly didn't know what an OBGYN cared about my cholesterol, but she was adamant. And regular doctors don't draw blood, you have to get it done in a lab. So I had the blood drawn last week and picked up the test results yesterday. Incidentally, the labs don't open until 8 a.m., and they won't mail results-you have to pick them up- and you can imagine how something stupid like retrieving blood test results makes getting to work on time impossible. This is France.

Anyway, I didn't bother opening the envelope with the results because French lab results are completely lost on me. I think it's the metric system. The same reason why I don't react to my weight on a scale until I get home and convert it.

So I let the doctor open the results herself and felt somewhat relieved when she made approving noises as she read. Then she frowned slightly and pointed to my cholesterol level: 1.32. Yeah, I know: what the heck does that mean.

"It's a bit low" she commented. The normal range was listed as 1.63 - 2.21.

I smiled with amusement. My mom was going to be so proud.

"Do you eat everything?" she asked.

"You mean do I finish my meals?" I asked. What a silly question.

"No, are you vegetarian?"

"Oh, no. I eat everything. Meat, fish..." ice cream, chocolate....

"Well, I'm sure it's fine."

She then directed me to undress, and while I proceeded to awkwardly comply (note: no paper modesty gowns in France) she made a phone call. When she hung up she told me that she had checked with a colleague about my cholesterol, and he recommended I get my thyroid checked. It could be overacting.

"And how do I do that?" I asked.

"Ah, that's a blood test."

"I have to go back to the lab."

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

You have to be kidding me. Again? Is this why everyone in France is constantly late for stuff? They're all getting their blood tested for something or other?

Well now I know that the lab is open on Saturdays, so I guess that's where I'll be this weekend.

After I got over the thyroid thing, the doctor moved onto something else to freak me out about.

"Now that you're almost 30, I'd like to recommend another test...."

For crying out loud. Was she serious? Happy birthday to me. I got a lesson on the virus that can lead to cervical cancer, preventative maintenance if I have said virus, (which sounds even more uncomfortable), blah blah blah. Did I want the extra test? Well shoot, I'm already there, and an ounce of prevention, right? Why not.

So now I'm all uneasy, with a few weeks of waiting to see if I have an overactive thyroid, a cancer-causing virus, or any other of the bad things the regular exam could turn up.

And then when I got home and read the lab results for myself, I saw under "Interpretation" at the bottom the lab had written "Hypocholestérolémie". WHAT is THAT. You can imagine how frustrating the results of a French Google search were.

Maybe the French government should consider what all these tests and preventative measures do to their citizens' mental health. French women might live longer, but do they have nervous breakdowns more frequently???

Don't Tell France: I'm in Secretly in Love with Spain

I'm just back from a 30 hour-long business trip to Valencia, with the usual reflections:

1. The weather in Spain is great. Obviously. With temperatures hovering around 70 and the sky cloudless, I tossed my jacket onto the backseat of my rental VW and drove with the windows down. Ah, breeze!

2. The people are nice. Not just nice, but friendly and courteous and warm. My Spanish colleagues broke into smiles when they saw me, they helped me find internet cables, they bought me coffee, they offered me seats in the cafeteria. I know what you're thinking, but it was both men and women. If my colleagues in Meru treated me half as kindly as these near strangers in Valencia, I know I wouldn't be so uncomfortable at work.

Furthermore, even the French people in Spain are nice. Maybe they've adapted to the local attitude, or maybe they were just nice people to begin with who decided to vacate their uptight country.

3. Valencia is cheap. Compared to Paris (and certainly London), anyway. Last night I had dinner with some friends (people I've only met a few times but who still warmly invite me to dinner) at a cozy Italian restaurant downtown. It was a unique place because you order your drinks, but nothing else. The waiters drop off plates of food for your table to share, and if you don't want it you send it back. Of course, I was there with a couple of boys, and they rejected nothing.

I love a good food adventure. We had cheeses and sausage and carpaccio (my first raw beef experience) and pasta and I don't remember everything else but mentally, I was wondering how much Faurecia was going to end up paying for this elaborate meal. In the end, my share was less than 20 euros. I was shocked and delighted.

During my last trip to Valencia, there were fireworks in the city every night and I was convinced that the city was magical. This time there were no fireworks, but walking home from the restaurant I noticed something else unusual. For an entire city block I was overpowered with the scent of roses. There were no rose bushes around, no perfume stores, not even anyone else on the street. But it smelled beautiful. I stopped on the corner and said aloud to no one: "What is it with this place?"

Alas, the worst part about Valencia is leaving. Now I'm going to be cold, lonely, and depressed for three days until the memories fade.

At least I have the company of the warm boy in my bed. And that's the best part about France.

How Not to Get a French Driver's License

According to the French government, this is what you need to get a French Driver's License:

1. Passport + copy
2. Residence permit + copy
3. Current driver's license + copy
4. Certified translation of current driver's license
5. Letter from home country stating the date that original license was obtained
6. Translation of above letter
7. Copy of utility bill proving residency (no, an original is not acceptable)
8. One pre-addressed A5 envelope with 3,34 euro postage
9. One application form
10. One whole morning to spend at the prefecture

And THIS is the easy way, because Michigan has an exchange agreement with France. "All" we have to do is turn in our old licenses and get new ones.

If we had come from another state without an exchange agreement, we would have had to take the infamous French driving test. And personally, I'd rather walk to work then take that test.

When Roch and Sue lived in France, Roch spent four years driving around with his Michigan driver's license. Dave and I were hoping to do the same, but the car insurance company had other ideas. But since we bought a car before we had our residence permits (#2), they gave us one year on our Michigan licenses. Which is the same amount the French government allows before we have to take The Test.

So about a month ago we decided that we might as well get going with this inevitably painful process. The thing we were worried most about was the letter from the Michigan government stating the dates that our first licenses were issued. It's not exactly the kind of thing you go to the Secretary of State or DMV to request.

Fortunately-ha ha!-my dad works for the Michigan government, and within a few phone calls knew exactly who we needed to talk to. So it turned out to be the easiest step of the process, and today I was fantasizing about how easy life would be if my dad worked for the French government.

So we had the letters, but they expired within 30 days. Well, of course, nothing gets done in France in August, so in early September I started looking for an official translator. With the help of the relocation company (when they returned from holidays), I got the name and phone number of a guy and contacted him last week.

Gerard was certainly a character on the phone. When I first tried speaking to him in French (yes, of course the translator speaks English but I didn't want to be presumptuous), he immediately cut me off and said "Would you rather we speak in English?" with a proper British accent. I continued in English, and when he spoke again, he had changed his accent to American. How funny.

Anyway, I sent him faxes of our licenses and the letters from the Secretary of State. On Monday, I received a fax at work (Gerard doesn't have e-mail and doesn't seem to be too fond of the phone) that the translations were done and to please send payment. Well, Dave and I had planned a trip to the prefecture on Thursday, and we knew a back and forth mailing (the check to Gerard, the translations to us) would take at least a week, so we decided to drive to his place to pay and pick up the translations ourselves.

So last night after work we drove to the other side of Paris to the sleepy suburb where Gerard lives. It was my mistake, making arrangements to meet him right after work, because the rush hour traffic in Paris was painful and we were over an hour late.

At chez Gerard I went to the house while Dave waited in the car. I was ushered in the front door, which, surprisingly, led down to the basement. Gerard, who had to be at least 80 years old, led me to the back of the basement, took my check, and said "Wait here".

So there I was, in some random old guy's basement, in some unknown suburb in France, at night, looking at the rusty garden tools, thinking that this is what they make horror movies about.

It must have been 10 minutes before he hobbled back cheerfully, not with a bottle of chloroform, (by then I'd decided that Gerard probably preferred something less messy than knives or garden tools), but with carefully typed translations of our licenses.

"What about the letters?" I asked.

He waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, you probably won't need them. But it depends. If you do, just call me back. It will cost you more, you know."

I didn't want to argue, it was too late anyway, and I wanted to get out of the basement. When Dave and I got home we examined the list of requirements again. "Look," Dave said, "it says official translation of our licenses. Here is just says 'translation' of the letters. We can do it ourselves."

So were up late last night, struggling to translate the letters. Just before bed I sent one to Wally for him to check, and when I got up this morning he had sent back the corrections. Actually, he hadn't so much as corrected our French as rewrite the whole darned letter.

We left the apartment at 8:15, worked through the maze of La Défense, found a parking spot, and walked to the prefecture just before the license exchange office opened at 9.

Here's how the rest of the morning went:

8:55 Took a number ticket from the automated machine: "You have 3 people in front of you. Your wait will be approximately 11 minutes". How clever and helpful, this ticket! Love France.

9:10 Office opens and accepts first ticket

9:40 Our number is called. We walked to the little office, which is more of partition, and sat down together with cheerful "bonjours". The unsmiling woman said in French "Have you visited the reception desk?" We had. Months ago. They gave us the stupid list. Dave said "oui" and opened his folder full of stuff. She glanced at the pile of documents, and said "NON". She pointed to a sentence at the top of the list. "You must visit reception before coming to the office". But we had, we pleaded. Non. Go back. And next time, don't come together. But we're married, Dave argued. It doesn't matter.

Hate France.

9:45 Got in reception line, which at this point is nearly out the door.

9:55 Take two more number tickets. There are 10 people in front of us.

10:00 Reach receptionist. He quickly goes over our documents and separates them into neat piles before stuffing each set into a clear plastic folder and handing them back. Useful.

10:30 Our first number is called. Dave leaves and I fidget in the waiting area.

10:32 Dave returns for The List of Things You Need, which the receptionist had put into my folder. Apparently even the stupid list is on the list.

10:40 David storms out of the office. I jump up: my turn? He beckons me over to the side while my number flashes on the board. "It's not going to happen. They want the the letters officially translated".

Really really hate France.

As we marched out of the prefecture, the gray cartoon clouds storming over our heads, he filled me in.

Apparently when the grumpy woman pointed out that our translations weren't stamped by an official translator (if only she'd known they were translated by a drunk rock journalist), Dave had argued that The List did not say "official translation". "Mais c'est logique!" she told him.

"Logique!" David scoffed as we put the prefecture behind us. "There is nothing logique about the French government!"

La Poste est Pourri

I know I've already complained about the French post office, but it continues to baffle and infuriate me so I'm going to keep on blogging about it.

I hate the French post office. Like I mentioned before, the only day I can really make it to La Poste before closing is on Saturdays. And on Saturdays it closes at noon, so if I stop by around 11:30 (which is usually the earliest I can be bothered to leave the apartment on a Saturday) I'll find myself in a long line that doubles up on itself in the lobby and nearly spills out the door.

There are 5 guichets, or windows, plus an extra one for special people; the handicapped (properly I.D.ed, of course), the pregnant, and the smug privileged who have bought a special pass I haven't quite figured out yet.

Today I woke up relatively early and decided to jump on the opportunity to go to the post office and beat the late morning rush. While David and Oliver continued to snooze, I skipped my shower, pulled on some clothes, grabbed my ipod, passport, and delivery slip, and clambered onto the street.

It was my second trip to the post office in 24 hours. Yesterday we managed to get home by 6:45, so I jumped out of the car and scrambled to La Poste clutching two delivery slips we'd received during the week. I waited in the usual agonizing queue, then had the back luck of getting the hostile guichière (it's a shame we don't have a word in English for the person who works behind a window).

I've lived in Levallois-Perret long enough to know our local post office guichières by temperament. There's Refreshingly Patient, Ready to Go Home (and therefore in a hurry and more flexible with the paperwork), Grumpy, and Hostile. Unfortunately for me, I see Hostile a lot more often than Refreshingly Patient.

So I jammed my two scraps of paper under the window and held my breath. He glanced at my passport, then waved one of the slips at me. This paper says Dave Basson. I said oui, he is my husband. He shook his head, it didn't matter. The paper says Dave Basson. Dave Basson must authorize the release of the package to me.

I regrettably took the slip back and sulked over my inability to say "Just wait a minute while I forge his signature because we both know that's what's going to happen anyway".

So today, today when I rolled out of bed early, I was determined to pop in and out of the post office and still have enough morning left to run some errands before David fully woke up. I forged the delivery slip and trotted down the street with a mission.

And what do you know, the queue wrapped around the lobby and almost out the door. It seems that the post office compensates for slow early morning traffic by only opening 3 guichets. Just to make sure the line still almost goes out the door.

I got in line, once again blessing my ipod, and watched the minutes on the big yellow La Poste clock tick by while the queue did not move one iota. In typical French fashion, customers have to fill in a sheaf of forms to get anything done at the post office. And, unlike the States, the guichières just stand and grumpily oversee the completion of the forms instead of helping the next person while they wait.

When I got to the front of the line I eyed each of the guichières, mentally weighing which one was going to finish first. The woman who was getting hassled by Hostile looked like she was packing up her purse and getting to leave. I cursed my bad luck again and braced myself. But then the woman found another form in her purse to argue with him about and I was saved.

Finally I was beckoned to the window of Grumpy, which I considered a small victory. He barely glanced at my forgery for Dave Basson and retrieved the package from the back room. I decided to press my luck and asked for postcard stamps to the US as well. He indicated toward some pre-stamped envelopes and told me that I should buy those instead, they cost only 5 centimes more and were a lot faster. I shook my head and said no, just stamps. He looked at me like I was completely stupid. Did I really have to delve into a philosophical discussion about my mailing preferences? Couldn't he just give me the stamps, stupid or not?

I think he was just trying to avoid dragging out the bulky book they keep stamps in. I should change his name to Lazy. Finally he sighed, flipped through the book, and proceeded to tear off 10 stamps at a snail's pace.

I gathered my package, stamps, and purse, said my most courteous "Merci, au revior", and left the dreadful place. As I stepped into the late morning sunlight I turned the box over in my hands and saw the addressee: Chi and Dave Basson.

Râler

The French word "râler" means "to complain", or something stronger I won't mention on a PG blog.

I've noticed that lately I have written more about fun weekends in Paris or funny things that happened at work and not more of the hassles we've been going through. I guess I figured no one wants to read about me whining. But I don't want to give the impression that we're having nothing but fun or that things are particularly easy right now.

So if you're interested in what kind of weird meat I had for lunch today, I might suggest you not read the rest of this post.

David's Job

Fortune has smiled upon us and David has two companies that have expressed interest in the past week. He's really happy that he'll be able to work soon, but now he's presented with an extremely difficult decision.

Company 1 is McLaren, manufacturer of possibly the coolest cars on the planet. McLarens are even more rare and expensive than Lamborghinis. So you can imagine the stars in my car-loving husband's eyes. It's a dream job.

And it's in England.

Which means he'd be commuting to and from Woking, England (about 3o miles from London) every week. He'd have to find lodging and transportation and open an English bank account (that's right, we'd be dealing with 3 different currencies, 5 different banks).

He'd be working in English, obviously, which is both good and bad because then he wouldn't be learning French.

Company 2 I'm not going to mention by name lest I offend someone. It's an American company, but they have a site near the Charles deGaulle airport in Paris. The job isn't as interesting, and the fate of the division is questionable as the company filed for Chapter 11 last year.

He'd do some interesting travelling and have to pick up French quickly.

So it boils down to: dream job in England, or mediocre job in Paris?

We've been working out the pros and cons for the past four days. And the scales tipped this morning when the offer from McLaren came in. He's still waiting for word from the other one.

I'm biased, naturally. And I'm having a hard time not being selfish and begging him to not leave me alone in Paris for five days a week. But you have to understand, asking David not to take a job with McLaren is like asking a pilot not to take a job as an astronaut. It's an opportunity of a lifetime.

More to come as the situation progresses.

Vacation Time

Last week I learned from Faurecia's headquarters that I had lost five vacation days for the year. They told me that the "rules" had changed, so I assumed that meant everyone lost five days.

Well, then I asked some friends. It seems the company started a sort of 401(k) program that allows employees to give up five vacation days in exchange for a savings account that they'll be able to access when they are in their 60's. Apparently they gave everyone the option, and everyone said 'no' (I love how much the French love their vacation). So they started making it mandatory for all new employees.

Fair enough, except:

1. I'm not a new employee. Ok, I'm new to Méru, but I'm not new to Faurecia. But fine, I'll give them that.

2. My contract states the full vacation time. Doesn't it seem that if HR is going to change details of my contract they'd have to give me some kind of warning? Add an addendum to my contract? Isn't that whole point of a contract?

3. I have my own 401(k) in the States, why do I need one here? And furthermore, I won't even BE here when I'm in my 60's, so how can I expect to see that money?

Ok, now you could argue that I already have an obscene amount of vacation time, which is very true. But the fact that I pretty much had these days stolen from me without a truthful explanation really makes my blood boil. It's the principle!

So now I'm trying to compose a polite e-mail in my head that I can send to HR that will at least get a fair explanation as to how I can expect to see this money or get my vacation days back.

Before I left, my boss in Auburn Hills told me to choose my battles wisely. I was ok letting this one go until they tried to trick me.

My Screwed up Salary

And speaking of being tricked, I got my first paycheck with housing allowance and cost of living adjustment last week. When Dave and I worked out the math, we seemed to be about $800 short. What the h---! (PG...must remain PG) Here's another polite, yet annoyed e-mail to send to HR.

I feel like I spend all of my time and energy fighting something. If it's not the language or French bureaucracy, it's my own company. I don't like fighting. Why can't we all just get along?

Ok, that's the end of my complaining. More on lunch tomorrow.