06.06.06: Bonne quelque chose

The locals have a nice penchant for well-wishing, always based around the word bon(ne).
Some recent examples:

• Bonne installation (when you move into a new place)
  
• Bonne dimanche (every Sunday, after every purchase at the market)
  
• Bon spectacle (at entry to a pretty average local musical show), and my favorite ...
  
• Bonne continuation (upon serving the plats after the entrée, for the remaining enjoyment of the meal)
  

I had a few articles to repair/replace/return this week. Every article, every vendor has their own story. So, in order of occurrence on Saturday ...



France Telecom (who, by the way, have launched a new marketing campaign called "Open". On large black signs, the word open appears in simple text font, in orange letters, just left of center. I don't know if this in deference to or in defiance of l'Académie Française, but in small print on the bottom of each sign is the translation into french ("s'ouvrir"). At any rate, the cell phone that I purchased from Mr. Open-ness last month is no longer working. The reason I bought a new phone last month is because the prior one was stolen from my house on Easter week-end. So, after about one and half hours of conversation, it was decided that the next best step was to have Mr. Orange visit my house on Tues AM and replace the phone. Despite several attempts at explanation, it was not real clear to me why that was a better solution than just exchanging the one I had with me for the one in the back room of the store. No matter. Everything will be resolved on Tues. Mr. Open does not equal Mr. Convenience today.

• Bonne conversation.
  

FNAC ... and Michelin GPS.


I bought a Michelin GPS machine just after Christmas last year, without which I suppose I would still be wandering the Loire Valley trying to find my hotel in some medeviel shaped village. Instead, I travel the roads of france without fear, without regard, without maps, and I always arrive on time. Michelle (the voice in the machine who guides me thru each rond-point) is suffering from some strange voice malady that needs to be rectified. Approaching Place d'Italie on Thurs evening, she could barely choke out 'deux----i---eme ----s--ort---ie'. I had a flashback of Chevy Chase and BigBen. I took the first sortie. At any rate, to get Michelle fixed, as it were, Mr. FNAC demands that the machine be sent back to Michelin for ONE MONTH. Incroyable. After much protestation, he did agree to write on the return ticket to Michelin that I need the GPS for professional reasons, so please return urgently. Mr. FNAC suggested this might speed the process to three weeks. This, for an article with a one year guarantee. I am sure every return ticket has the same urgent plea. I am not the least bit confident that I will ever see Michelle again, and I am not happy with the prospect of traveling le sud de la France next month with old-fashioned maps.

• Bonne route, bonne chance.
  

Decathlon ... and a bike rack. I bought a bike rack a few weeks ago, but it doesn't fit the bike, so I returned it. No problem. Just get in line with your receipt and the cashier will refund your money. No long conversation; I almost forgot where I was for a second.
But then she said:

• Bonne restitution.
  

06.05.10: Marva: à contre-courant

The first time I heard Marva Wright was in New Orleans, Christmas night, 2000. The stock market was at an all-time high, 9/11 was nine months in the future, Iraq was a fading memory from 1991, gasoline pump prices were $1.65 a gallon, and we were 6 days away from the dawn of the 21st century.

Having said all that, Marva sang the blues. In the face of so much optimism, in a smoke-filled room, packed with Bud bottles and voo-doo scents, accompanied by Henry Butler, Marva made us forget all that there was to celebrate, and instead feel, deep in the core of shared memory, the omniscience of pain. It was a moment, an evening, not to forget.

I caught up with Marva again this week. This time in St-Sulpice, Paris's largest church (and, thanks to the DaVinci Code, perhaps currently the most famous) on a chilly, drizzly spring evening to kick off the St-Germain des Prés Jazz Festival. (Metro 4) This time accompanied by Lucky Peterson on the organ and the London Community Gospel Choir. Now, we are post-9/11. Diesel pump prices are 1€15 per litre. The S&P500 e-bubble is seen for what it was. The CPE and Clearstream scandal have infected local politics and policy. Iraq is no longer a fading memory, but a constant reminder of how the misperceptions of the few can result in the adverse reality of the many. And Katrina dumped hundreds of thousands of gallons of the Gulf of Mexico on FunkyButt's, where I last saw Marva in the Ramparts.

Having said all that, Marva and the congregation pumped out some gospel to carry the message that hope is omnipresent. Lucky, in solo, softly playing the organ, proposed the most heartfelt version of A Change is Gonna Come. Everyone believed. Marva's At Last was right on time.

Marva the contrarian. She gots the goods. I think the rain is letting up.

06.04.14: Respectez le fromage

OK, so where I work, there are about 10,000 frenchmen and a few people from various countries around the globe. I am the only person there that doesn't speak french (yet). Shame on me. OK. I am working on it. Really.

At any rate, all of the written communication in the plant is in french. Until this week. A new sign showed up in the cafeteria:

"Please take on a full piece. Dont cut the cheese."

When we walked into the cafeteria on Thurs, 6 people read the sign and immediately looked at me and started laughing. The sign was obvioulsy not posted for them. I told them it wasn't very good english.

Some observations we can make here:

1. Assumes all french speaking people know how to behave in public with cheese.
2. Assumes all previous mal-handling cheese purchasers do not speak (or at least read) french. This is a very small population.
3. Conversely, we could assume the actual fromage abusers are french, but to save face, the sign is posted in english as a diversion.
4. Assumes that the offenders are compliant with written instructions - so obviously does not apply to the french
5. When it is important to communicate, even a frenchman will stoop to english.

I will just say this: I did not cut the cheese in the cafeteria. (and I will not explain this expression to the locals, just yet).

06.04.12: Impressions et Surreality

OK, it's been some time since I actually had a few minutes to update (well, OK since I made a commitment to just sit down and do it). Had a troublesome project to complete at work that took too much time, but since that is where the income flows from, whaddaya gonnna say? Well, that is behind me now (in a good way), so here are some non-work related impressions from the last month or so ...

Mid-March ... The man on my right is sporting an ivory-white yarmelka with gold letters "Elijah Cohen Barmitzvah 15.04.2005". The man in front of me has on a purple wig. The lady behind me wears a cowboy hat and boots, and her children are dressed like spiderman and annie oakley. The man in the front of the room stands behind a podium, rocking back and forth on his feet, looking alternatively at the ceiling and the scroll unfurled on the podium, while chanting, singing and reciting a poem. At seemingly random moments, the whole crowd stomps their feet and spins their little noise makers. I have on a yarmelka myself, believe it or don't, and the whole time the man to my left is pointing to a book I am holding in my hands and keeps saying in very broken english: "if you want to understand what is going on, you have to read the book." I look at the book, and each page has 3 languages written on it: Hebrew, Hebrew with latin characters, and what looks to me like fairly complicated french. OK, I am not going to figure out what is going on here. I look in the corners of the room, expecting to see Salvador Dali sketching this scene. Dali does not show himself. Instead, I listen to the chant, and calm myself with this little riddle: If you are in a french temple, and someone says: vous êtes très gentil, are they saying I am kind for sharing the seat, or are they calling me a Gentile? I opt for the former. Always the optimist.

The ceremony ends. I stroll next door and have a pizza and a beer, sans yarmelka.

Just another evening in a strange land.

06.02.05: Chambre d'hôte: ouvert

As the Ukrainians left Monday evening, Colleen and Andy were chugging north on the train from Barcelona. So, with the exit of the eastern Europeans, comes the arrival of the North Americans, and the first official guests to chambre d'hôte mesnil. As of 31-janvier, we are now officially open.

Colleen and Andy made themselves at home and pursued the obligatory primary tourist meccas in gay paree, and (as some of us still work for a living) we hooked up in the evenings for some nice meals and conversations. We did the circuit: Tues evening in the Quartier Latin for a simple and traditionelle Menu à 15, Wednesday in Le Marais for a feast of mid-eastern 'quinze éléments' with a wide-ranging spectrum of fish, meats, cheeses and vegetables.

Thursday we went for a traditional and very nice repas at Le Timbre in Montparnasse (6th, Metro 4 to Vavin). Quadruple feast day: groundhog's day (US), le chandeleur (France), l'anniversaire de Colleen (local), and also the 16th anniversary of the day when F.W. de Klerk promised to set Nelson Mandela free (international). A day worthy of celebration. We ate 80% of the menu (skipping only the andouillette and the boudin). The assiette de fromage was a selection entirely from l'Auvergne and the vin de l'Ardèche, selected by the chef, was a great accompaniment for the wide range of plats (confit de canard, poulet roti and brouillard). Elbow-to-elbow in the postage stamp sized dining room, one friendly server, assisted by the chef in full view of the dining room, we were the first to arrive and second last to leave.

On Wednesday as we were chowing on the éléments, a musical duo came in to entertain the crowd (and hope for a few coins, no doubt). The guitarist from Cuba and the bongo sidekick from Paris (and hey, aren't we all from Paris at some time?) posed for a photo op for Andy. Andy pulls out this cheap medium format camera that has duct tape on it to cover up the light leaks, points it in roughly the general direction of the musicians, and pulls the lever for a very long manual exposure. There is no way to hold a camera steady for more than about 1/30 sec, on a day without too much café, and I know he added a little wine to the café he drank earlier. So I'm thinking: what the hell kinda photography work is this? He tells me there is actually a market for this kinda stuff.
The trick is though, you never really know how the image is going to turn out, so you take a few hundred images, and from time to time the image is everlastingly priceless. So, you have these black&white candids, where the subject is randomly placed (or not) within the view window, and the film is bounced up and down a few hundred times within the timeframe of the shutter opening, and perhaps the lighting is about right, and perhaps some nice darkroom work all results in a memorable sense-du-moment. Or perhaps in the blurred image, we each have the opportunity to see what we want to see.

[Sidebar: I imagine this is like US foreign policy. You points your Rove-r in one direction, he perhaps holds steady long enough to sketch a shaky image of the future, so you pull the shutter and hope for the best. I guess the difference is, you can pull the shutter a few hundred times on a cheap plastic camera, and noone is likely to get hurt. Not sure there a few hundred mid-eastern countries left to experiment on in the hopes that one will turn out to be a thing of beauty for the ages.]

Sometimes, I think about the decision to come to France this way. Was the future-scope camera centered on the target, was the exposure about right; did I have a clear enough sense of the image that would come out of the darkroom? Not so obvious just yet. But the camera still has a lot of film left on the roll. So for today ... point, steady, click. The collage continues.

[Addendum: the guest book at chambre d'hôte mesnil has this inscription supplied by our most recent guests: "... the best shower and bed we've experienced in all of Europe."
Next?]

06.01.25: Ukrainian Roulette

The Russians are coming, the Russians are coming.Well, actually, the Ukrainians are here. Really.

So, here we have it. Six Ukrainians here for six working days, and they work for six hours a day (I am a little anxious about this six repetition, especially since I just took the DaVinci Code walking tour last weekend).

At any rate, if two languages being spoken in the same room (français et anglais) can cause confusion, three languages (en plus, russian) is approaching a level of entropy that may require a corollary to an existing law of thermodynamics. The official language for this week's activities is english. I am the only person in the room who speaks english (er, well, at least american) as a natural language. Most of the french have a pretty good command of english, and two of the six Ukrainians speak english (not bad, actually) and they have to translate everything into Russian. Everything. And the chief Ukrainian does not speak english or french. Needless to say, progress is slow. Having said that, we are making progress.

[As a side note: If I understand it correctly, Ukrainian is actually the official language of the Ukraine, but since the Russian language was required for the past few generations, there is a general re-learning of the native language taking place currently. In the meantime, for basic communication, the folks with us this week are speaking Russian (not that I can tell).]

Lunchtime, we get to have a little lighter conversation. At least, I try.

On Monday, I asked the frenchies if they had read the recently released report from the University of California-Davis that states that it is not a good idea to have wine and cheese together. At first, they asked if this was referring to Kraft American Pasteurized Process Cheese Food. In which case, they agreed. Anything not fit for human consumption is not improved with any type of wine. I explained that this was a rigorous study, conducted to the highest oenological and fromogological standards that demonstrated that elements in the cheese inhibit the ability to taste some characteristics of the wine. Their question: "But does that mean the experience is not enjoyable, or just different than expected?" Maybe it helps to start with the right question. At the time, we were having a very nice Bordeaux with some Bleu d'Auvergne and Brillat Savarin. I didn't mind it a bit.

Today at lunch I explained the story of the current film, 'Goodnight and Good Luck', to the group of french and ukrainians. Gouvernement intrusion into private lives, un-American activities, banishment from the film industry, champion of civil liberties from the media, relationship between two current Georges (Clooney and fourth-last-letter-of-the-alphabet), and parallels with current events in the US. Wow, this guy had to translate the whole thing for his Ukrainian buddies (and still eat lunch.)

At the end, the chief Ukrainian said something to his translator in a relatively serious tone of voice, which then got translated to us as follows:

"Da, we know of such practices from our experience with Soviet Union. Maybe just a little more severe for us. You should take care with current situation."

Everybody laughed. Me, a little nervously.

It's not everyday I get advice about protecting civil liberties from someone from the former Soviet Union.

Maybe he's got a point.

06.01.06: Arrosage, Nues, Gratuit

If I were the type to keep score, here is how the week is shaping up: 1 glass of champagne, 4 breasts, one glass each vin rouge and rosé, and 1 shot of Chinese saki, all gratuit.

Went to the local market on Sunday morning. Our market, sort of like Findlay Market, but all grown up and very comfortable and relaxed in its role. About twice the size of Findlay, open on Thursday and Sunday. Excellent selection of fresh fruits, vegetables, meat and fish, and around the periphery, street sales of clothes, and shoes, and also gloves and scarves on colder winter days. Oh yeah, and within waking distance of our house. Bought a nice pork roast and some chops for the grill from the regular boucherie. Since it was the first Sunday of the year, the boucher gave each of us a little pocket calendar. A mundane fleur-de-lis design on the cover for Jen, a naked woman for the design on mine. Not sure when was the last time Si Leis allowed the vendors at Findlay to hand out pin-up girl calendars, probably not even a Ben-gal on playoff Sunday.

Monday, at work, just before lunch. Assemble in the Comité for an arrosage. Good to learn some colloquial language every day. Arrosage: a watering. In practice: celebration initiated by one of my colleagues that he has been in his new position for 3 months; celebration enacted by champagne all around at 11:30 AM on a Monday. Sharing champagne has a bit more cachet when it is the family business, and you can pull out bottles that all have the family name on the label. One glass of champagne, gratuit encore.

Tuesday, at work, at lunch. Michel's birthday was Sunday. He decided to share a little of the celebration with us. One bottle of vin rouge, purchased at the company luncheon canteen. Shared around. One glass vin rouge, gratuit encore encore.

Wednesday, at work, at lunch. Céline signed off on and moved into a new apartment this past weekend. She decided to share a little of the celebration with us. One bottle of vin rosé, purchased at the company luncheon canteen. Shared around. One glass vin rosé, gratuit encore encore encore.

Thursday, evening. Walked down to the local Vietnamese/Thailandaise resto for dinner. Nice little dinner of bœuf au sauce piquante. When a guy with a french-asian accent tells you your french is improving, is this a positive? Am I now sounding slightly asian with my french pronunciation? At any rate, after dessert (apple beignet, nicely dusted with a little sugar) M. Serveur offers me a shot of Chinese saki as a digestif. Proudly he pours me a shot in a special shot glass that has an image of a naked woman in the bottom, but only as long as there is alcohol in the glass. As you drink the digestif, the woman mysteriously evaporates, diaphonous and tawdry ..... Now this is truly a conundrum. If you chooose to drink the alcohol, the naked woman will disappear. I think I have had this experience before. Not sure I have always made the best choice in this situaton. I choose the saki. Saki and two more elusive breasts, gratuit, encore x 4.

As the nudity dissolves into a blurred image and the saki dissolves into my bloodstream, I realize the distinctions between the familiar and the unfamiliar are starting to dissolve also, bit by bit, étape par étape.

05.12.22: Foggy day along the Meuse

Dad:

I had a few days to do some exploring, so I thought I'd check out some of the places Grandpa stayed when he was here. So, here is the story of what I found.

Drove east out of Paris for 2 hours on A4, then exit and continue on, mostly further east and a little north. At every intersection, take the smaller of the two roads, until finally all of the roads are barely one-and-half cars wide, just ambling through the French country side. All small towns. To an American driving through on a cold December morning, they all look the same. Agricultural countryside, crops long since harvested for the year, winter rye showing through the frost. Towns spaced about every 10 km. Rolling hills, reminiscient of western Kentucky, without the split rail fences, and without the roadside advertising.


All the towns have really only four identifiable features, and three of them are the same for each town.




The black lettering on the white sign to tell you where you are on the map; about 10 or 15 old grey buildings, older than memory, serving as either houses, cow barns, or maybe a local general store;



a church in the center of the town, the tallest structure;




and next to the church, a memorial to the local men who served, and mostly died, between 1914-18.






Rolled through a slightly larger town, Varennes-en-Argonne. Looked strangely familiar. I think, perhaps, Grandpa was here. Can you check his stack of photographs?
This is what it looks like today:




I seem to remember a similar photograph or two, black & white, with soldiers about, of the church, and the mill on the hill across the river.













Went into the hotel to use the restroom. Three old men sitting in the bar, one with a cigarette, one with a beer, one with a glass of red wine. It's 10:00 AM on a cold December morning. The one with the full head of grey hair, the beer drinker, telling a story, the other two acting like they had not heard before. The interior of the old building is spotlessly clean.





Drive on, visiblity low, temperature steady at 1 deg C. Fog hangs heavy, like the history in this area.






Grandpa's DSC citation says he was in action near Mamey and Cuisy.

OK, so on to Mamey first.

To an American on a cold December day, 3 days before Christmas, nothing special about this town is obvious. One old man walking up his mud drive carrying a bucket, perhaps some feed for the chickens.



No place to stop for a coffee, no other activity about.


No reason to think this should be a decisive location in the history of the war, but I guess battles don't care what came after, or before, for that matter.






Drive on towards Cuisy.

Another hill, another town.


Down in the valley, a small cluster of buildings, captive between two facing hillsides. Must be Cuisy in the valley below. One can imagine countless trenches and artillery lined up on opposite sides of the valley, facing each other, waiting for the first to flinch to decide the moment, the day, perhaps the rest of the war.



Turn right, drive down the dirt road.

Cuisy.


Same small town, same church, same memorial. One of hundreds of similar French towns in this part of the country. This one is unique to me, only because Grandpa survived long enough again this day to gain the other hillside. No place to stop for a coffee, no activity about on a cold Thursday afternoon, 3 days before Christmas. One house has a few red and gold decorations hanging outside a window facing the main street.





One backyard has a small American flag next to the barn. Noone about to ask about this; it will stay a mystery.








Decide to walk about, over the next hill. Ground nearly frozen this time of the year. Better than September and October when Grandpa was here. I imagine it was just as cold then, but everything turned to mud from the rains and the constant footsteps and heavy vehicles. Through the fog, crest the next hill, an abandoned structure. Bombed out church. Taken by the Germans on Sep 11, 1914, re-taken by the French and US forces in September 1918. In the intervening years, the town and the church destroyed.


This town different than the others in the area; this one not to be re-built.

Keep moving, further north and a little westward. Next hill. Through the fog, smooth white surfaces. All day, everything has been stone and earth. Shiny white marble looks stangely out of place, yet calm, not disturbing. The boundary between the marble and the fog is elusive. Look again. 14,246 pieces of marble, each one marking the grave of an American who didn't leave France.



The markers have names, dates, divisions, home states marked on them. All of the states, all manner of family names.
Choice of marker: Latin cross or Star of David.
Choice of date: September, 1918 or October, 1918.



Up the next hill, introduced myself to the supervisor of the memorial. Middle aged guy, American accent, ball cap with American flag on the front. Told him my grandfather earned the DSC in this area; he expressed great interest in knowing more when I told him Grandpa was a balloonist.

This is what he told me: "You know, there was only one American balloonist killed in the war. Amazing when you consider how dangerous it was. He is buried here, out in that field. Perhaps your grandfather knew him".


And then he said this: "You know, there was one balloonist who used up three balloons in the same day, and survived."

This is what I said: "Yeah, that was my grandfather." He read the copy of the DSC citation I had with me.

Then he said: "Can I have a copy of this?" And: "Do you have a photograph of him that I can have? We are putting together a display that we share with visiting dignitaries, about the history of the Americans who served in this area." So I told him I would gather up some photos and send them to him.

Then he said: "You know, you oughta come back the last Sunday in May. We do a real nice memorial ceremony here with both American and French troops. I think your grandfather would appreciate it. The fog should lift by then."

05.12.13: Rebel desserts, with a cause

The idea when I left the US was to develop and feed an obsession for wine and cheese. Seemed pretty straightforward. About as difficult as standing at 5th & Lex and developing an obsession for taxi horns.

Instead, I am becoming enamored with desserts.









To be sure, I have sampled some pretty nice wines and cheeses so far -- some downright extraordinary.

• Exhibit 1 -- every damn fromage from Auvergne - Auvergnians are maniacs about their cheeses, and I think they have a point. More on this another day.
• Exhibit 2 - wine & cheese show in the Marais a few weeks ago. (Metro ligne 1, St-Paul) Met this very ambitious vigneron from Languedoc who has concocted some very sexy wines in the last few years (syrah, cabernet, carignan, grapes grown on the side of a volcano).
  Made a commitment to visit his domaine next year for a major dégustation.
  

But the desserts here are can be just downright intriguing.

So, check this one out from MusicHall (Metro lignes 1 or 9 to Franklin Delano Roosevelt, walk about 3 blocks north, and oh yeah, they have a few street names here I can sort of pronounce correctly).

Le Havane:
carpaccio de poire au sirop de tabac, et ses fines meringues croquantes garnies de parfait glacé à la réglisse.

Not sure I have this completely figured out, but should be something like this: thinly sliced pear, served with a little crunchy almond biscuit with licorice ice cream and tabac soaked in caramel.

Tabac, as in tobacco. Kentucky's finest. For dessert. ("I usually only have a cigar after a good meal", he told the hostess.) No kidding. They take some tobacco leaves, soak them in a very sweet caramel syrup, dry them out (I assume in a little dessert tobacco barn with La Poche Poste painted on the side) and then stand them like little gothic buttresses to create the parfait arrangement. Interesting mix of acrid tobacco encased tenderness. A very nice set of flavors to finish a meal with, and to precede un café.

France is a lot like La Havane. Visually very attractive, a little bitterness coated in sugar. Just the proportions change day to day.

(Oh yeah, the photo at the top .... we went down to Boulevard Haussmann the other night to enjoy the Noël window displays and outside lighting at Printemps and Galeries Lafayette.)

05.12.09: Visa, et nous ne faisons pas américain express

Subtitle: Kafka does Isle-de-France

Remember that character in the Drew Carey Show, the incredibly large woman with the massive blue eye shadow and the bubbly personality? Well, she dyed her hair red, lost any redeeming qualities she might have had with her personality, and she lives in France now. She is in charge of the visa status of hundreds of non-French citizens on a daily basis.

And she is reeeaaalllly unhappy about the whole situation.

Oooh, j'exagères! Not! I really wanted to take her picture just so you would know that I am not exaggerating this time, but I figured that would be the end of my France vacation for sure.

Okay, so here's the story. We need to officially change our visas to long term stay, and the process has multiple steps, beginning about 6 months ago, and culminating in a visit to our local préfecture this week.

Thursday, 8-Dec
07:45 - Arrive at the préfecture. Cold, rainy. We are about the 100th persons in line.
09:00 - Stated opening time of the préfecture. No activity at the front gate.
09:15 - The gate opens, and the town crier announces multiple categories of people, none of which seem to apply to us, so we remain in the default line.
09:45 - We are now 6th in line outside the big gate; there are about another 50 people behind us. Gate closes. Town crier announces that is all that will be admitted today.
09:45:15 - Bedlam, melée, teeth gnashing, paper waving. Noone else passes through the portals of french freedom this day.

Friday, 9-Dec
07:20 - Arrive at the préfecture. Thankfully it is not raining on Friday. Unthankfully, the temperature has dropped a few more degreees, so it is just above freezing. We are about the 75th persons in line. We also have with us an appointment letter faxed to us from the préfecture yesterday, for an appointment at 8:00. We are not overburdened with confidence.
07:30 - I wanted to do a little photo shoot, you know, give me your tired, your poor, etc. We were in that kind of a line. I took one photograph. It was, of course, still dark out. The flash, of course, fired on the camera. I was immediatley verbally abused by about half a dozen young men.

I found out later I was standing in the line of people seeking asylum. No photos please.
So, anyway, my career in photo journalism ended early this morning by a desire to stay in line long enough to at least have the opportunity to be turned down again by the French gouvernement for a visa.

08:00 - Check my watch, check my appointment letter. No activity at the front gate.
08:30 - French army nurse Mimi struts out of the gate. Barks orders, checks papers. We get assigned to line number 3. Behind the Bulgarians, but ahead of the dread-locks.
09:15 - We, along with the refugees, are in the building. We are now warmer while we get verbally abused by this frightful woman.

Let's imagine that this very large, unhappy woman is really here to help us. Let's imagine that we have an obsession for fondling paperwork (originals + 1 photocopy, please) and verifying that we can distingiush between the original and the photocopy. (See that small stamp of blue ink in the corner .... it must be the original, a photocopy would be all black print, of course). Let's imagine we need to ponder for 10 minutes why immigration did not stamp my passport on my most recent entry to France. Let's imagine that it is significant if I entered France on October the 12th or the 13th, given the fact that I am standing right here in fricking front of you! Let's imagine that it is important that I have one piece of paper that verifies that I have the second piece of paper, and that both of them are here with me today. Let's imagine that all of these are incredibly important details that determine if I (and my lovely wife) will, in fact, be legally or illegally in this country after Monday.

Let's imagine I'm a white guy, with resources available to me from one of the largest corporations on earth, and this is how I got treated.

Let's imagine that I'm not so fortunate, not so white, not so wealthy, and don't get through this process after 2 days of standing in the cold and rain. And imagine this is only one of many ongoing encounters with the fonctionnaires. Could lead you to want to burn a car or two (thousand). Or who knows, we could all get lucky, and the next to go could be a certain préfecture.

11:15 - Exit the building with new fancy stickers in our passports. We assume we are now legal. After all the shouting and arguing to get them, we are in fact just happy to leave the building.
11:16 - Still not content that I didn't get to complete my photojournalism task for the day, I snap a photograph of a protester outside the gate on our way out. He is standing next to a policeman. Bad move on my part, I guess. The policeman starts yelling at me, then yells at his compadre to call the chef de la sécurité. They have a long discussion on the phone. They tell me to leave. I'm not sure if they mean France or just the area in front of the building. I choose the latter, for now.



Am I ranting? Ah, tomorrow I will go to some 10th century architecure marvel, and truly be humbled and amazed. But the stench of the Créteil Préfecture is not likely to wear off for some time. And, rumours to the contrary, I guess all French women ain't all that skinny, and Lady Liberty was parked in the Seine this week, with no reach to the unfriendly confines of Créteil.





Irony of the day:
The french word for a little label is étiquette.
Go figure, encore.