It’s spring time in the south of France. The almond trees in the grove behind the house are all in full bloom and the cherry trees are threatening to burst out with their own contributions any day now. I’ve got blooming daffodils in the front yard and everything else is leafing out. Of course the rabbits that ate my tulips down to nubs in Illinois have also apparently relocated and are eating my French tulips down to nubs as well. But I digress, who cares about greenery and flowers in the spring? Spring my friends is also the time of year when a girls heart and thoughts turn to flirty skirts and sexy, strappy sandals. I was browsing said sandals on the Nordstrom’s web site and came across a whole line of sandals by Carlos Santana. Mind you I don’t think they’re all wonderful (my personal favorites are the ‘pure’ the ‘mari’ and the ‘rumor’, they’re very Latin.) but there are some very saucy, sassy, sexy, strappy…..
I’ve had the flu and have been in bed since Friday. Today is the first day I feel almost human again, though I’m still typing this from my bed. ‘The Precious’ has been sitting on my nightstand mostly ignored this week, difficult as that is to believe. I’ve popped Precious open periodically to check e-mail, but have had difficulty responding in more than a sentence or two. It’s too hard to type much more than that with only one eye open and only one finger doing the typing.
If I could have blogged on Sunday night it would have made for some great reading I’m sure, as I was running a fever of 101 or more, (didn’t have the strength to wait for a full reading) and under the influence of Nyquil. I was having bizarre dreams involving loud parties, basketballs, whales and sea lions and some scary floral arrangements. Yes usually all at the same time.
Poor S was gone all last week visiting Romania for a series of meetings and where he was also able to tour one of the purported Dracula castles. From that week of useless and disorganized meetings he returned home find me ill and in bed (well except that I did drive to the airport to pick him up on Friday night). He doctored as best he could over the weekend while at the same time trying to not breathe my air and also prepare for another round of useless meetings this week. He returned to a heavy work schedule on Monday and has been gone sunup to darned near midnight every night. He calls and checks in on me during the day and asks what he needs to bring home. I hope he doesn’t get sick too.
So no French lessons for me this week. Though when I spoke to Maggie, to cancel this weeks sessions, she very sweetly offered to bring over soup or ferry me to the doctor and made me promise to call her if I needed anything. (I wish I could do her Irish accent in print, I love it) The irony is that my project for Wednesday and Thursday this week was to find doctors in the area and prepare for doctor visits and any medical emergencies that might come up. Though if you go to the doctor when you have the flu they generally tell you to ‘get lots of rest, drink lots of fluids and take Tylenol for the aches’ with that knowledge memorized there seemed no point to disturb any doctors.
I’m feeling so much better today I’m hoping to even get to shower today…eww, just kidding, have actually forced myself to shower daily and have even washed bedding. Anything less would have been way too depressing not to mention smelly. I am, however, hoping to get down to the Mairie today to pick up the Carte Gris for the car, this project does seem a bit ambitious though and I may have to set my sights on just making it to the end of the driveway to check the mail today for the first time all week. Hope nothing too important has been out there waiting. Wish me luck on my project for the day.
Wednesday, February 25, 2004
Friday, February 20, 2004
I’m sick tonight and it’s Ariel Sharon’s Fault
Is it bad when there’s a slight wheeze in the bottom of your lungs when you breathe? How about if you’re also running a slight fever? Add in coughing up a lung? Is that bad? Yeah, pretty much what I thought.
Well as some of you have heard the language lessons have begun in earnest. My question is this, with all the new and wonderful technology available why can’t we learn a la Matrix. Plug in a learning module and record it onto your brain. Someone should seriously work on that. Well, in lieu of that I make my pilgrimages to ImpaQt.
My lessons take the form of projects. We prepare for the project in the morning, vocabulary, pronunciation, comprehension, role playing various scenarios and other general preparations (some involving maps and appointing a co-pilot). Then we attack the project in the afternoon. I’m not supposed to speak any English during the day. Just French, if I get stuck and can’t think of a word I’m supposed to work around it or use a different word. Sometimes I cheat and throw in the Spanish word. Mina, my language coach, knows Spanish however and calls me on it. If I speak English she begins to loudly hum the French national anthem. Sort of like putting your fingers in your ears and shouting loudly ‘I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you, la la la la la la la’. I like Mina, she’s a hoot.
Over all it’s fun and frustrating and sometimes slightly humiliating. I sometimes cry from the sheer frustration, but most often I laugh. Jane and Maggie teach French people English and Mina works with me on my French. We do morning warm ups, usually as a group, that involve goofy stuff like charades or guessing games. The warm ups end with everyone laughing and usually with me telling Maggie she ‘sucks’. (Long story) All in all the entire atmosphere is one of fun and encouragement. I really enjoy Mina, she has a good sense of humor and she’s very encouraging. Though sometimes, for reasons I cannot understand, Mina says I’m sarcastic, can you believe that, me sarcastic? Honestly.
The hours fly by and returning to the office at the end of an afternoon project we do a brief feedback session and plan the next meetings project. By the end of the day I’m actually physically and emotionally drained and exhausted. On some nights and early mornings following a day of French I actually dream (perhaps nightmares should be inserted hear instead of dream) French conversations. In my dreams however I’m really good. (Right. In my dreams!)
On Wednesday (2/18) the project was ‘projet permis de conduire’. My car insurance company requires that I have a French driver’s license. My IL license is only good here for one year so I need to get it changed. According to everything I’ve read about the licensing process, Illinois is one of the few states that have arrangements with France to exchange drivers’ licenses. This means that the French will allow me to turn in my IL driver’s license for a French one without having to take a written or driving test. Cool right? Well yeah in theory it sounds easy, but the ensuing paper chase makes me wonder if the tests wouldn’t be easier and less fraught with red tape.
The previous night of internet research turned up information that was a bit disturbing. In order to ‘exchange’…
(yeah the word exchange implying [at least to me] that I hand them mine and they hand me a new one of theirs – foolish American!)
…my driver’s license I would have to assemble the following paperwork.
1. 2 passport sized photographs
2. Proof of residency. Usually in the form of an EDF/GDF bill (electric and gas).
3. The appropriate form completely filled out. (To be obtained at the préfecture)
4. An official translation of my American driver’s license. (Hmm.)
5. Present my ‘Carte de Séjour’ and a copy of the front and back of it.
6. A fee of 65€. (The information on the Am. Embassy site says that this is a free service?)
Alright then, this meant that our day project would have to be to first find the préfecture (I had tried alone the day before and never did find it) obtain the necessary form and find out who could do the official translation of my driver’s license. Preparations included practicing questions I would need to ask and learning to listen for key words in the other person’s response. You would not believe how much easier it is to decipher what someone is saying when you are looking at them. Without facial clues or lip reading you are left with only your ears and you have toreally listen. I also appointed Mina the co-pilot as it’s hard to drive in downtown Toulouse and read a map at the same time.
As it turned out the hardest task of the day was to find a place to park. We drove up and down streets looking for the prefecture, then finding the road to the préfecture (among others) closed we decided to park a little further out of the center and walk there. We ended up parking at least 2 miles away; I think it was actually more. We parked on the west end of the downtown area and had to walk all the way to the east end of the downtown area.
During our invigorating walk we began to notice that something was definitely amiss. There were gendarmes and police everywhere. They were massed on street corners, they were directing traffic and dozens seemed to just be milling about up and down the sidewalks.
We walked and walked and walked and by the time we finally reached the préfecture my feet were beginning to hurt a bit. At the prefecture we picked up the form and I got one for S too. Then a new ribbon of red tape was added when the man saw my Carte de Séjour. You see I don’t actually have a Carte de Séjour, what I have is a temporary document, the actual one is supposed to be in the mail. The man at the préfecture said that I would have to have the real one to apply for my new license. Ok, fine.
Next I asked him for a list of people who could do the official translation. He directed us back to the front desk were we were then further directed to inquire at the ‘Palais du Justice’ (Palace of Justice – Court House). The nice lady directed us further east. Another ¼ mile later we found it and the terribly rude woman behind the counter gave me a copy of a list of 8 people who could do the official translation.
On the walk back it began to get more overcast and ominous looking. This is when we noticed that one of the major roads through town was closed to traffic. Police patrolled barriers across the road and on the road were several police vans and at least 3 gendarmerie busses. Ok, something was definitely going on, but we had no idea of what it could be.
For added fun and excitement, halfway back to the car it started to rain. Yup, rain. It was cold and now we were also getting wet. As we walked I was sure that something had happened to my car. The walk back seemed much longer than the walk over, I guess because of the rain. I kept asking Mina “Did we really walk this far?” She assured me that we had. Her feet were beginning to bother her too.
We finally reached the car and begin our return to the ImpaQt office.
As a side note I would like to also add that when we got on the Auto Route traffic was backed up and a sign said that the road was closed ahead. I hoped that the road would be closed just after the exit we needed and Mina looked it up on the map and it appeared as if we would get lucky, but no. We had to get off the Auto Route and take the back roads home.
This is the part were I say... umm... well... Ok fine, I’ll say it. Thank god S made me learn the back roads or I would have been in big trouble then. Ok, there I said it, ok. S was right I was wrong. ::scowling at a gleefully dancing S:: Whatever!
So anyway, on Thursday morning when I woke up after sleeping like the dead, I was coughing. I was coughing one of those slightly barky kinds of coughs and my eyes had that slightly feverish feel. So like a good girl I loaded up on my Echinacea and vitamin C and then went to ImpaQt to spread my germs. The project for the day was ‘projet coiffure’; I needed a haircut.
Upon my arrival at ImpaQt, the ever chipper Maggie informed us that the entire hubbub of the day before was due to the Prime Minister of Israel being in town to visit Airbus industries. Because of Ariel Sharon I was forced to park miles from where I needed to go, and then walk back part of that trip in a cold rain. Because of Ariel Sharon I am sitting here on Friday afternoon typing this Blog in bed after having spent all day here running a fever, trying not to cough up a lung and under the influence of large quantities of Nyquil. There is a very disturbing wheeze and rattle in my lungs when I breathe and I feel like crap.
Taking the high road, however, I do not point a finger of blame. I just want to say that I hope that Mr. Sharon had a pleasant and productive visit to our lovely city. (Sarcasm? Me?)
Well as some of you have heard the language lessons have begun in earnest. My question is this, with all the new and wonderful technology available why can’t we learn a la Matrix. Plug in a learning module and record it onto your brain. Someone should seriously work on that. Well, in lieu of that I make my pilgrimages to ImpaQt.
My lessons take the form of projects. We prepare for the project in the morning, vocabulary, pronunciation, comprehension, role playing various scenarios and other general preparations (some involving maps and appointing a co-pilot). Then we attack the project in the afternoon. I’m not supposed to speak any English during the day. Just French, if I get stuck and can’t think of a word I’m supposed to work around it or use a different word. Sometimes I cheat and throw in the Spanish word. Mina, my language coach, knows Spanish however and calls me on it. If I speak English she begins to loudly hum the French national anthem. Sort of like putting your fingers in your ears and shouting loudly ‘I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you, la la la la la la la’. I like Mina, she’s a hoot.
Over all it’s fun and frustrating and sometimes slightly humiliating. I sometimes cry from the sheer frustration, but most often I laugh. Jane and Maggie teach French people English and Mina works with me on my French. We do morning warm ups, usually as a group, that involve goofy stuff like charades or guessing games. The warm ups end with everyone laughing and usually with me telling Maggie she ‘sucks’. (Long story) All in all the entire atmosphere is one of fun and encouragement. I really enjoy Mina, she has a good sense of humor and she’s very encouraging. Though sometimes, for reasons I cannot understand, Mina says I’m sarcastic, can you believe that, me sarcastic? Honestly.
The hours fly by and returning to the office at the end of an afternoon project we do a brief feedback session and plan the next meetings project. By the end of the day I’m actually physically and emotionally drained and exhausted. On some nights and early mornings following a day of French I actually dream (perhaps nightmares should be inserted hear instead of dream) French conversations. In my dreams however I’m really good. (Right. In my dreams!)
On Wednesday (2/18) the project was ‘projet permis de conduire’. My car insurance company requires that I have a French driver’s license. My IL license is only good here for one year so I need to get it changed. According to everything I’ve read about the licensing process, Illinois is one of the few states that have arrangements with France to exchange drivers’ licenses. This means that the French will allow me to turn in my IL driver’s license for a French one without having to take a written or driving test. Cool right? Well yeah in theory it sounds easy, but the ensuing paper chase makes me wonder if the tests wouldn’t be easier and less fraught with red tape.
The previous night of internet research turned up information that was a bit disturbing. In order to ‘exchange’…
(yeah the word exchange implying [at least to me] that I hand them mine and they hand me a new one of theirs – foolish American!)
…my driver’s license I would have to assemble the following paperwork.
1. 2 passport sized photographs
2. Proof of residency. Usually in the form of an EDF/GDF bill (electric and gas).
3. The appropriate form completely filled out. (To be obtained at the préfecture)
4. An official translation of my American driver’s license. (Hmm.)
5. Present my ‘Carte de Séjour’ and a copy of the front and back of it.
6. A fee of 65€. (The information on the Am. Embassy site says that this is a free service?)
Alright then, this meant that our day project would have to be to first find the préfecture (I had tried alone the day before and never did find it) obtain the necessary form and find out who could do the official translation of my driver’s license. Preparations included practicing questions I would need to ask and learning to listen for key words in the other person’s response. You would not believe how much easier it is to decipher what someone is saying when you are looking at them. Without facial clues or lip reading you are left with only your ears and you have toreally listen. I also appointed Mina the co-pilot as it’s hard to drive in downtown Toulouse and read a map at the same time.
As it turned out the hardest task of the day was to find a place to park. We drove up and down streets looking for the prefecture, then finding the road to the préfecture (among others) closed we decided to park a little further out of the center and walk there. We ended up parking at least 2 miles away; I think it was actually more. We parked on the west end of the downtown area and had to walk all the way to the east end of the downtown area.
During our invigorating walk we began to notice that something was definitely amiss. There were gendarmes and police everywhere. They were massed on street corners, they were directing traffic and dozens seemed to just be milling about up and down the sidewalks.
We walked and walked and walked and by the time we finally reached the préfecture my feet were beginning to hurt a bit. At the prefecture we picked up the form and I got one for S too. Then a new ribbon of red tape was added when the man saw my Carte de Séjour. You see I don’t actually have a Carte de Séjour, what I have is a temporary document, the actual one is supposed to be in the mail. The man at the préfecture said that I would have to have the real one to apply for my new license. Ok, fine.
Next I asked him for a list of people who could do the official translation. He directed us back to the front desk were we were then further directed to inquire at the ‘Palais du Justice’ (Palace of Justice – Court House). The nice lady directed us further east. Another ¼ mile later we found it and the terribly rude woman behind the counter gave me a copy of a list of 8 people who could do the official translation.
On the walk back it began to get more overcast and ominous looking. This is when we noticed that one of the major roads through town was closed to traffic. Police patrolled barriers across the road and on the road were several police vans and at least 3 gendarmerie busses. Ok, something was definitely going on, but we had no idea of what it could be.
For added fun and excitement, halfway back to the car it started to rain. Yup, rain. It was cold and now we were also getting wet. As we walked I was sure that something had happened to my car. The walk back seemed much longer than the walk over, I guess because of the rain. I kept asking Mina “Did we really walk this far?” She assured me that we had. Her feet were beginning to bother her too.
We finally reached the car and begin our return to the ImpaQt office.
As a side note I would like to also add that when we got on the Auto Route traffic was backed up and a sign said that the road was closed ahead. I hoped that the road would be closed just after the exit we needed and Mina looked it up on the map and it appeared as if we would get lucky, but no. We had to get off the Auto Route and take the back roads home.
This is the part were I say... umm... well... Ok fine, I’ll say it. Thank god S made me learn the back roads or I would have been in big trouble then. Ok, there I said it, ok. S was right I was wrong. ::scowling at a gleefully dancing S:: Whatever!
So anyway, on Thursday morning when I woke up after sleeping like the dead, I was coughing. I was coughing one of those slightly barky kinds of coughs and my eyes had that slightly feverish feel. So like a good girl I loaded up on my Echinacea and vitamin C and then went to ImpaQt to spread my germs. The project for the day was ‘projet coiffure’; I needed a haircut.
Upon my arrival at ImpaQt, the ever chipper Maggie informed us that the entire hubbub of the day before was due to the Prime Minister of Israel being in town to visit Airbus industries. Because of Ariel Sharon I was forced to park miles from where I needed to go, and then walk back part of that trip in a cold rain. Because of Ariel Sharon I am sitting here on Friday afternoon typing this Blog in bed after having spent all day here running a fever, trying not to cough up a lung and under the influence of large quantities of Nyquil. There is a very disturbing wheeze and rattle in my lungs when I breathe and I feel like crap.
Taking the high road, however, I do not point a finger of blame. I just want to say that I hope that Mr. Sharon had a pleasant and productive visit to our lovely city. (Sarcasm? Me?)
Sunday, February 15, 2004
"Hang the code and hang the rules" - Part 2
So sorry…where was I? Oh, yes! It’s not the narrowing of the road that bothers me. What bothers me a little bit and bothers my neighbors a great deal is the parking situation.
Drop off times are no big deal, parents screech to a stop, unload the kids and speed off to work. Pick up times, however, are a whole different thing. Starting at about a half hour before the actual pick up time some parents start arriving. They take the choicest parking spaces; in front of the school and positioned for an easy escape. As the others begin to arrive they take less choice spots but they are still legal. Then we get the sidewalk and corner parkers. The sidewalk parker drives up onto the sidewalk and parks double next to the person who is already parked at the curb (obviously only on those small sections of sidewalk without guardrails). The corner parker pulls in head first into the corner, you can get three small cars around a corner that way. And finally we come to the worst of the group, the driveway parkers.
The driveway parkers, after a cursory glance around, just decide “screw it” and park in front of our driveways. There are four residences across from the school; four small spaces where four small cars fit. It is important to also note that the driveway parkers are invariably also parents who have to leave their vehicles and go into the school for one reason or another and the driveway parker that parks in front of my right hand neighbor’s house is invariably the one with the scheduled teacher conference or something similar.
This twice daily event so enrages my neighbor that he has posted a no parking sign in front of his driveway. From time to time I’ve even seen him standing at the curb, giving all would be parkers the evil eye, all to no avail. If you pull your car up to the edge of the driveway in an attempt to leave and thus confront the driveway parker, the offending parent loads the children into the car and drives away pretending the entire time that they don’t see you. It can make you want to pull a ‘Tawanda’! (I’m not that hormonal yet though)
Then a week ago, as I looked out my window while sipping my morning coffee, I noticed two men out at my curb painting the driveway curb yellow. They were painting all four of our curbs yellow. Yellow means NO PARKING! I saw my right hand neighbor come out and greet these gentlemen with barely suppressed glee. He brought them coffee and croissants and stayed to chat while these men worked. At last, someone was laying down the law! At the noon pick up time the men were still painting and they very rudely and loudly shooed anyone away that even looked at the driveways. Not to enforce the rule mind you but to protect the still tacky paint. By the time the 5:00 pm pick up approached though, the men were long gone. I was riveted to my window; I set an alarm so I would not miss this. What would happen now, I mean yellow paint is all fine and good, but really not much of a deterrent to the desperate; puncture strips maybe, but paint? Right!
Well of course you know that the paint had no effect whatsoever. Those last desperate few pulled right into the driveway spaces without a seconds hesitation; as if the curb had never been any other color. I saw my neighbor come flying out of his house and give an earful to the one parent that dared to break the LAW in front of his house. As this chastised parent pulled out and the neighbor walked back to his door, another, blithely, pulled right in. My neighbor threw his hands up in disgust, hung his head in defeat and slammed his door shut.
Then I got an idea. I read this story in Newsweek and was inspired:
This article gave me an idea, I’m going to make up parking report slips to place on windshields. They’ll reflect three grading areas.
1. Effort made to find another place.
2. Duration of stay in an illegal spot. (less is more)
3. Receptiveness to criticism and hostility.
I’ll share this plan with my dispirited neighbor. I envision him taking to this idea with great zeal. I won’t have to do a thing.
Drop off times are no big deal, parents screech to a stop, unload the kids and speed off to work. Pick up times, however, are a whole different thing. Starting at about a half hour before the actual pick up time some parents start arriving. They take the choicest parking spaces; in front of the school and positioned for an easy escape. As the others begin to arrive they take less choice spots but they are still legal. Then we get the sidewalk and corner parkers. The sidewalk parker drives up onto the sidewalk and parks double next to the person who is already parked at the curb (obviously only on those small sections of sidewalk without guardrails). The corner parker pulls in head first into the corner, you can get three small cars around a corner that way. And finally we come to the worst of the group, the driveway parkers.
The driveway parkers, after a cursory glance around, just decide “screw it” and park in front of our driveways. There are four residences across from the school; four small spaces where four small cars fit. It is important to also note that the driveway parkers are invariably also parents who have to leave their vehicles and go into the school for one reason or another and the driveway parker that parks in front of my right hand neighbor’s house is invariably the one with the scheduled teacher conference or something similar.
This twice daily event so enrages my neighbor that he has posted a no parking sign in front of his driveway. From time to time I’ve even seen him standing at the curb, giving all would be parkers the evil eye, all to no avail. If you pull your car up to the edge of the driveway in an attempt to leave and thus confront the driveway parker, the offending parent loads the children into the car and drives away pretending the entire time that they don’t see you. It can make you want to pull a ‘Tawanda’! (I’m not that hormonal yet though)
Then a week ago, as I looked out my window while sipping my morning coffee, I noticed two men out at my curb painting the driveway curb yellow. They were painting all four of our curbs yellow. Yellow means NO PARKING! I saw my right hand neighbor come out and greet these gentlemen with barely suppressed glee. He brought them coffee and croissants and stayed to chat while these men worked. At last, someone was laying down the law! At the noon pick up time the men were still painting and they very rudely and loudly shooed anyone away that even looked at the driveways. Not to enforce the rule mind you but to protect the still tacky paint. By the time the 5:00 pm pick up approached though, the men were long gone. I was riveted to my window; I set an alarm so I would not miss this. What would happen now, I mean yellow paint is all fine and good, but really not much of a deterrent to the desperate; puncture strips maybe, but paint? Right!
Well of course you know that the paint had no effect whatsoever. Those last desperate few pulled right into the driveway spaces without a seconds hesitation; as if the curb had never been any other color. I saw my neighbor come flying out of his house and give an earful to the one parent that dared to break the LAW in front of his house. As this chastised parent pulled out and the neighbor walked back to his door, another, blithely, pulled right in. My neighbor threw his hands up in disgust, hung his head in defeat and slammed his door shut.
Then I got an idea. I read this story in Newsweek and was inspired:
Newsweek International February 2, 2004 My Pony's Name Is Chief Author: David Ray Edition: Atlantic Edition Section: Letter From France Page: 8 |
|
The day after the 2003 Gault-Millau
guide demoted Bernard Loiseau's Cote d'Or restaurant in Burgundy from
19 to 17 points, the famous chef shot himself, leaving behind three children,
a wife, several restaurants, a boutique and a frozen-food line. The French
were deeply saddened at losing the man who had perfected Bresse chicken
poached in an earthenware pot with foie gras and truffles, but they were
not surprised. Making good grades is everything in France. They define your rank and status even more than in America. I discovered this on the AstroTurf in St-Laurent-du-Var, about 20 minutes west of Nice, at my son's football practice. His team of 20 little boys chased the ball like a school of confused fish. The coach yelled at them to separate, to pass, to find the open man, but the pack clumped together in midfield until the whistle blew. Time to grade the boys. One by one each kid was marked on the correct use of his right foot and left, his header and the accuracy of his penalty shot. The alpha males were separated from the runts and the joy of the game was lost, at least for me as I sat with the French mothers, who smoked as much as they complained. I soon found this was a rather modest grading affair, compared with, say, horseback riding as arbited by the Federation Francaise d'Equitation. After six months astride Chief, my son came home from school with his Attestation de Competences for Level One, Yellow. The document was signed, dated and stamped and listed six clear objectives. Among them: "I know my pony and call him by name" and "I stop the pony in a precise place." Another paper soon followed, accrediting his swimming abilities at level four: "Doing the breast stroke for 25 meters without stopping to float" and "Retrieving an object .80 meters underwater." If only the federation were kind enough to add, "Picks up wet towel and suit from bathroom floor." Nothing compares with the grading of schoolwork. The single subject of French has seven separate categories: reading, grammar, conjugation, vocabulary, handwriting, recitation and spelling. Perfection is defined by the fraction 20/20. It's an A+, the perfect 10, your ticket to one of the few grandes ecoles. Alas, I fear for my daughter. We share a nemesis--the conjugation of irregular French verbs. She received a 14.89 in her first trimester. The high in the class was a 19.00 and the low was 11.06, all duly noted on her report card. Perhaps because I went to Brown University in Rhode Island, where pass-fail was the rule, this obsession with scores began to grate on me. But I soon found a way to turn it to my benefit. Tired of shoveling up the poop of Madame Delforge's German shepherd at 7:30 in the morning, I politely told her in my broken French, "Madame Delforge, you get a 5 over 20 for picking up the caca of your dog." Since then I have seen no poop on my doorstep. I tried the same technique on the driving instructor who parked in the crosswalk while getting a baguette, as well as on the ladies who fingered all the peaches at the fruit stand. With one simple fraction, I achieved prompt behavior modification. This secret sense of power went to my head. I started grading everything. Drivers got a 10 for going too slow. A sunny day was an 18, a cold one 15--worse if I forgot my jacket. None of this made me happy. To the contrary, I felt like a crab. Then one day I received a Father's Day card from my son: WORLD'S BEST DAD. It was one of those silly Hallmark things, and of course I started to grade it--then instinctively stopped. Time to return to pass-fail, I decided. Life has been excellent ever since. |
This article gave me an idea, I’m going to make up parking report slips to place on windshields. They’ll reflect three grading areas.
1. Effort made to find another place.
2. Duration of stay in an illegal spot. (less is more)
3. Receptiveness to criticism and hostility.
I’ll share this plan with my dispirited neighbor. I envision him taking to this idea with great zeal. I won’t have to do a thing.
Thursday, February 05, 2004
"Hang the code and hang the rules" - Part 1
Hang the code and hang the rules. They’re more like guidelines anyway. - Miss Swan in ‘Pirates of the Caribbean’
Have I mentioned that I live across the street from an elementary school? Well, I do, I live across the street from an elementary school. Nothing terribly remarkable right. The kids don’t bother me, the playground is behind the school so I hardly hear them. The only time I hear them is when they make their daily walk to the Gym/Pool down the street, and at those times I like to watch them as they run and laugh and push each other around and their teachers to their limits. The problem I have with the elementary school is the parents, the parents and their cars.
I live in a small town and like many a street in small French towns, my street is barely wide enough for two small cars to drive down side by side. Despite that fact, four times during the day, every week day, it turns into something that must resemble a cholesterol clogged artery in the heart of a man that loves his fried chicken.
Those times are, the morning drop off, which is the best of the four since it occurs over a half hour period from 8:30 to 9:00, the noon pick up of the ½ day Pre-K kids and those who go home for lunch, the 2:00 pm drop off after lunch, and the 5:00 p.m. pick up.
At those times it seems that these wonderfully proper and cultured French parents throw all laws, courtesies and kindnesses to the wind. It’s an every (wo)man for him/herself free for all and no parkable square inch of asphalt is safe, nor for that matter any unguardrailed section sidewalk.
The road is clogged with people parking on both sides facing which ever direction they happened to pull into that space from. The actual road is narrowed to one lane of traffic that is trying to move in two directions. The narrowing of the road doesn’t bother me so much. On days that I’m looking out my window hoping for some Blog inspiration, I am amused by the antics I see on that stage. The battles played out before me make the epic battles of LOTR look like child's play.
It’s really quite a dance. First, you’ll get one aggressive mom who forges ahead westward down the road, followed closely by a pack of others who hope she’s found the way out. All east bound traffic will yield the path to this aggression and wait their turn. Then some east bound mom will think ‘ENOUGH’ and she’ll find a small opening and forge through followed by her own entourage of hopeful escapees. This ballet will go on back and forth in what seems far from but in reality is, an orderly fashion. Then just as you start to get bored with the whole thing, real entertainment value is added. Into the mix comes one large city bus that doubles as the school bus. It loads up and just begins to move east and god help anyone in its way. All traffic moves hurriedly to accommodate the behemoth and the dance continues. Despite the seeming insanity, on most days, honking is kept to a minimum and against all odds, everyone survives the ordeal with hardly a scratch or a ding.
Every once in a while though, maybe on a particularly dreary afternoon when moods are already dark, the honking that reaches my window climbs to levels that until this point were largely unknown and then you can suddenly hear raised voices starting up. This is when I run upstairs for a good view of the whole stage.
You get two parents, I imagine they are both bullying and impatient FATHERS, who will not yield the artery. They are out there almost bumper to bumper, resembling the parents of opposing little league teams, in the middle of the road with their own pack of followers pressing in closely from behind. You can see their red faces through the windshield, each one honking and pointing at their opponent. Refusing to budge and inching forward until their bumpers are touching. This engine revving posturing will go on for a while until all semblance of patience is broken and then madness breaks out. Both men are out of their cars shouting and bellowing at each other. This is followed by wild and rampant gesticulations (that I don’t understand – someone needs to show me how to swear with my hands in French) pointing and accusations and just when the whole affair has reached a fever pitch and you just KNOW this time it’s going to come to blows, THE BUS starts to move!
Suddenly all bets are off, the coolest head among them takes charge and begins to direct a lane of traffic (usually the west bound lane as the bus is heading east) to back up. She walks down the length of the tangled mess gesturing to all to back up. Slowly they begin to reverse up the street, then more rapidly as they see that the bus is not stopping. (No one and nothing will deter that bus driver from his appointed rounds.) The west bound father is forced to admit defeat as he hurriedly scrambles behind the wheel of his fiery steed and reverses up the road in the direction his followers have taken. Traffic inches forward again and soon peace once again reigns on my quiet, empty street. All thanks to a bullying bus and a cool headed mom.
Four shows daily folks all from the comfort of my office chair come on over, I’ll make popcorn.
But like I said, the narrowing of the road doesn’t bother me so much. What bothers me a little and my neighbor on the right A GREAT DEAL, is the parking situation…
(TO BE CONTINUED…)
Have I mentioned that I live across the street from an elementary school? Well, I do, I live across the street from an elementary school. Nothing terribly remarkable right. The kids don’t bother me, the playground is behind the school so I hardly hear them. The only time I hear them is when they make their daily walk to the Gym/Pool down the street, and at those times I like to watch them as they run and laugh and push each other around and their teachers to their limits. The problem I have with the elementary school is the parents, the parents and their cars.
I live in a small town and like many a street in small French towns, my street is barely wide enough for two small cars to drive down side by side. Despite that fact, four times during the day, every week day, it turns into something that must resemble a cholesterol clogged artery in the heart of a man that loves his fried chicken.
Those times are, the morning drop off, which is the best of the four since it occurs over a half hour period from 8:30 to 9:00, the noon pick up of the ½ day Pre-K kids and those who go home for lunch, the 2:00 pm drop off after lunch, and the 5:00 p.m. pick up.
At those times it seems that these wonderfully proper and cultured French parents throw all laws, courtesies and kindnesses to the wind. It’s an every (wo)man for him/herself free for all and no parkable square inch of asphalt is safe, nor for that matter any unguardrailed section sidewalk.
The road is clogged with people parking on both sides facing which ever direction they happened to pull into that space from. The actual road is narrowed to one lane of traffic that is trying to move in two directions. The narrowing of the road doesn’t bother me so much. On days that I’m looking out my window hoping for some Blog inspiration, I am amused by the antics I see on that stage. The battles played out before me make the epic battles of LOTR look like child's play.
It’s really quite a dance. First, you’ll get one aggressive mom who forges ahead westward down the road, followed closely by a pack of others who hope she’s found the way out. All east bound traffic will yield the path to this aggression and wait their turn. Then some east bound mom will think ‘ENOUGH’ and she’ll find a small opening and forge through followed by her own entourage of hopeful escapees. This ballet will go on back and forth in what seems far from but in reality is, an orderly fashion. Then just as you start to get bored with the whole thing, real entertainment value is added. Into the mix comes one large city bus that doubles as the school bus. It loads up and just begins to move east and god help anyone in its way. All traffic moves hurriedly to accommodate the behemoth and the dance continues. Despite the seeming insanity, on most days, honking is kept to a minimum and against all odds, everyone survives the ordeal with hardly a scratch or a ding.
Every once in a while though, maybe on a particularly dreary afternoon when moods are already dark, the honking that reaches my window climbs to levels that until this point were largely unknown and then you can suddenly hear raised voices starting up. This is when I run upstairs for a good view of the whole stage.
You get two parents, I imagine they are both bullying and impatient FATHERS, who will not yield the artery. They are out there almost bumper to bumper, resembling the parents of opposing little league teams, in the middle of the road with their own pack of followers pressing in closely from behind. You can see their red faces through the windshield, each one honking and pointing at their opponent. Refusing to budge and inching forward until their bumpers are touching. This engine revving posturing will go on for a while until all semblance of patience is broken and then madness breaks out. Both men are out of their cars shouting and bellowing at each other. This is followed by wild and rampant gesticulations (that I don’t understand – someone needs to show me how to swear with my hands in French) pointing and accusations and just when the whole affair has reached a fever pitch and you just KNOW this time it’s going to come to blows, THE BUS starts to move!
Suddenly all bets are off, the coolest head among them takes charge and begins to direct a lane of traffic (usually the west bound lane as the bus is heading east) to back up. She walks down the length of the tangled mess gesturing to all to back up. Slowly they begin to reverse up the street, then more rapidly as they see that the bus is not stopping. (No one and nothing will deter that bus driver from his appointed rounds.) The west bound father is forced to admit defeat as he hurriedly scrambles behind the wheel of his fiery steed and reverses up the road in the direction his followers have taken. Traffic inches forward again and soon peace once again reigns on my quiet, empty street. All thanks to a bullying bus and a cool headed mom.
Four shows daily folks all from the comfort of my office chair come on over, I’ll make popcorn.
But like I said, the narrowing of the road doesn’t bother me so much. What bothers me a little and my neighbor on the right A GREAT DEAL, is the parking situation…
(TO BE CONTINUED…)
Monday, February 02, 2004
Car Update
"...The other thing is that even if the Mairie will do it, it might take a few days to complete the process, but if we take it to the Préfecture we’re told it could be done in one day..."
Three weeks, three weeks!
The Car
"Find a happy place, find a happy place, find a happy place…” Peach in ‘Finding Nemo’
I’m psyching myself up to face some French humiliation. You see…
Picked up my lovely new (new to me) wheels on Saturday and spent the weekend cleaning it up, vacuuming, wiping, polishing, waxing… You would not believe the nastiness all over the interior of the windows. It was ‘ascusting’. Some people just don’t have the same standard of ‘clean’ as others do. And lord knows my anal-ness knows no bounds.
Anyway, have to get the vehicle registered, so we can get it insured, so I can DRIVE IT! This small little pile of paperwork must go to the ‘Préfecture’ so that we can obtain the ‘carte gris’ (grey card – pink slip) which we’ll need for the insurance. We believe however that if I take the paperwork to the local Mairie, they will be able to handle the process there. So my assignment today, should I decided to accept it, is to walk this stuff into town and see if they’ll do it at the Mairie. If that doesn’t work S and I will go into the city tomorrow to the Préfecture. The other thing is that even if the Mairie will do it, it might take a few days to complete the process, but if we take it to the Préfecture we’re told it could be done in one day.
So that’s why I’m trying to get psyched. So that I can remain calm when I have to face the inevitable blank stares or worse the ‘look it’s the village idiot’ stares from the women at the Mairie when I show them my small pile of paperwork and ask for what I need. Wish me luck.
I therefore introduce to you my new wheels.
I’m psyching myself up to face some French humiliation. You see…
Picked up my lovely new (new to me) wheels on Saturday and spent the weekend cleaning it up, vacuuming, wiping, polishing, waxing… You would not believe the nastiness all over the interior of the windows. It was ‘ascusting’. Some people just don’t have the same standard of ‘clean’ as others do. And lord knows my anal-ness knows no bounds.
Anyway, have to get the vehicle registered, so we can get it insured, so I can DRIVE IT! This small little pile of paperwork must go to the ‘Préfecture’ so that we can obtain the ‘carte gris’ (grey card – pink slip) which we’ll need for the insurance. We believe however that if I take the paperwork to the local Mairie, they will be able to handle the process there. So my assignment today, should I decided to accept it, is to walk this stuff into town and see if they’ll do it at the Mairie. If that doesn’t work S and I will go into the city tomorrow to the Préfecture. The other thing is that even if the Mairie will do it, it might take a few days to complete the process, but if we take it to the Préfecture we’re told it could be done in one day.
So that’s why I’m trying to get psyched. So that I can remain calm when I have to face the inevitable blank stares or worse the ‘look it’s the village idiot’ stares from the women at the Mairie when I show them my small pile of paperwork and ask for what I need. Wish me luck.
I therefore introduce to you my new wheels.
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