A few people have asked me what to send, should they feel generous and send me a "care package" here in France. and so, with the holiday season just around the corner, I decided I would post a small list of things I can't get here but that I really, really miss and would love to see at any time arriving in my mailbox:
-peanut butter (Jif makes these little single-serve thingies that are a lot lighter in weight to send than a big ol' jar. my dad sent me some - which I have already eaten - and they got here fine in a padded envelope)
-Kraft Mac 'n Cheese (my preference is the Spirals, mmm)
-Twinkies
-Arm & Hammer baking soda (seriously, can't bake anything good without it, and can't get it here)
-Colgate Sensitive toothpaste - the paste kind (no sensitive teeth toohpaste except Sensodyne here, yeck)
-celery salt
-marshmallows - little or big
-Jolly Ranchers
-Necco wafers
-Twizzlers licorice - the Nibs are my favorite, or the cherry twists
-Mrs. Grass chicken soup - it comes in a blue box, usually two together. Lipton Chicken Noodle soup envelopes are good, too
-Hidden Valley Ranch Dressing seasoning packets
-Orbit chewing gum, sweet Mint or any of the weird flavors, like Mojito or berry or pina colada
-small ponytail holders (remember, I have about five hairs, so the ones that are about the circumference of a silver dollar are more than adequate)
-Triscuits
-Nerds
-tubes of Blistex or Chapstick - plain or anything minty/mentholated is best
-legal pads. Yellow, white, colored, it doesn't matter. All the notebooks, etc. here are made with graph paper, and it sucks for writing letters.
-Lubriderm fragrance-free body lotion, or Banana Boat After-Sun lotion. All the lotions I've tried here so far are perfumed and make my skin feel funky.
-disposable emery boards
That's all I can think of, and please don't think this is a cry for presents - it's not, really ... just helpful hints in case anyone was already thinking of sending something my way. I welcome all requests for packages TO the States, just tell me what you'd like to try and I'll do my best to send it! And remember, I would be just as tickled to get a letter from you in my mailbox as I would to get a box with goodies in it. Love you all!
Friday, September 24, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
I'm a permanent resident
Did you know I am now a permanent resident of France? Well, almost. The appropriate page with its fancy stamp has been put into my passport, and when I go to renew my visa in March, I will get my actual carte de sejour, which is, I guess, the French equivalent of a green card. I actually got this taken care of a couple of weeks ago, and neglected to write about it, but when I told one of my sisters the story on the phone recently, she decreed that it should be described on the blog as soon as possible. And so, here we go.
You may have read about my first forays into the world of French immigration in much earlier blogs, back when I was getting the visa I needed to travel here. I have, since I arrived, and with the help of my husband, been to visit the French unemployment office (Pole d'Emploi) and the French equivalent of Social Security, to get myself registered and on their books. Both these things were done in the early days here, and neither was very traumatic. Registering with unemployment, also, made it possible for me to get hooked up with French language classes, which I finally started this week. More on that later.
I was told to expect, soon after I arrived, a summons to meet with someone or other in the French government for a "welcome meeting" - whatever that might entail, and a medical exam. I duly sent the necessary form to the appropriate office upon arriving (well, Patrick did, thank God for Patrick) and waited for word on this meeting. And waited, and waited some more. It seems that a whole hell of a lot of people have been immigrating/emigrating (and what exactly is the difference there? I've never known) just lately, and the welcome visits were a bit on the backed-up side. Finally, last month, a summons arrived. I was scheduled to appear in Montpellier (about two hours' drive) in early September, and a list was kindly included of the paperwork I needed to bring with me, and the fee that would be required.
Though many things in France are blessedly free of charge (like my French language classes, for example), some things - like a green card - do indeed carry a cost. A weighty one! Three hundred and thirty euros, to be exact. And you can't just write a check or present your debit card, either - oh, no, you must purchase these things that are sort of like postage stamps, instead. And it's not like you can get 3 hundred-euro ones, a 20, a 10, and 3 ones ... no, you're instructed instead to purchase a weird mix of 55 and 12 and 8-euro stamps, or something similar. It's a darned good thing they send you instructions, or you'd be liable to show up with the wrong mixture, and then I'm pretty sure you would go back on a waiting list for your meeting, and possibly be deported in the meantime. Anyway, it's no worse than some of the shenanigans I've lived through at an American DMV or the Social Security administration - bureaucracy is bureaucracy, no matter what country it is in. And besides, Patrick again came to my rescue and went to procure the weird stamps at city hall. He's my hero.
So, we arrived at the OFII (Office Francais de l'Immigration et de l'Integration) for The Visit. First, we went into a waiting room with chairs around the perimeter, which slowly filled with other people anxious to immigrate or integrate. There were folks from all over, but not much English, until a couple of Thai ladies entered with their French husbands - English was apparently the language they shared. Neither one of the Thai women appeared to understand a whole lot of French. We were also joined by what appeared to be a teenage mother with her vocally precocious (and by this, I mean he yelled a lot) son in a stroller and her dad. But wait - it wasn't her father, but actually her husband. (Seriously, the girl looked about 16 or 17.) Ew. Anyway, the room filled up, and then in came Really Skinny French Lady, to make a bored-sounding speech about a video we were all required to watch. Since I think everyone but me and the Thai ladies spoke French, her instructions were heeded, and we watched a lovely ten-minute film outlining the basic structure of French society and government. It had lots of lovely shots of Paris and of happy French people. I understood maybe half of it. Patrick whispered translations of salient points in my ear.
After that, the meetings began. This was a five-part process. You had to see one of the officials, so they could go over all your info and find out if you had a job, etc. You also had to have a visit with a nurse, a visit with a doctor, AND a visit to the x-ray room so that a chest x-ray could be taken, and then back to the original official to complete the final paperwork. Okay, then.
First, we met with Really Skinny French Lady. Patrick came with me for this one, and translated. We went over basic info, talked about the job I worked over the summer, the fact that I was already registered with the unemployment people, and what kind of jobs I might be looking for, based upon my job experience in the States. Then she told us I needed language classes (which we already pretty much knew) and attempted to give us the number of someone in Mende, where I would need to drive for classes. Patrick, having already talked to a lady in Marvejols (oodles closer than Mende) about classes there, told Skinny Lady we had already made arrangements. I was, in fact, scheduled to meet with Marvejols Lady the very next day. Skinny Lady pursed up her mouth and asserted that, very possibly, classes with Marvejols Lady would not fulfill my immigration and integration requirements. Patrick very coolly observed that since her name had been provided to us by the unemployment office, also a government office, she should be just fine. A number of terse telephone calls were made, and at the end of things, it was determined that the name of Marvejols Lady was actually the same (as was the phone number) as the woman that was on Skinny Lady's list for Mende. I promised to be sure to ask about this discrepancy when I saw Marvejols Lady tomorrow. Skinny Lady looked like she wanted to be more sure, but hey, there was a waiting room full of folks to see. We were dismissed.
Patrick escaped for some fresh air and a smoke, and I waited for Meeting Two. It was the nurse. I followed her into a small consult room and, through the use of my much-mangled French and her very few words of English, the first day of my last period was established, along with the facts that I had no major illnesses or diseases, was not pregnant, had not been hospitalized for anything in the past several years, and that I thought my vaccinations were up-to-date. When I said I didn't have my vaccination records with me, she was completely nonchalant, shrugged, and said I could see a doctor in my village if I was concerned about it. Okay, then. Stage Two, complete.
Back to the waiting room, which was starting to thin out as people were off to their various meetings. A few minutes later, I was called back for the chest x-ray. The tech took me to a changing room and explained (in English, actually - boy, was I glad of that) that in France, they don't use lead vests, and that you must be unclothed from the waist up for a chest x-ray. Oh-kay. As I was wearing a dress, I asked her should I shuck the whole thing? She replied that yep, that was what was called for, but I could, of course, leave my underwear on. Delightful. She closed the door and I undressed and then sat reading a book in my panties until she knocked for me to come out. In this interval, I heard her try to retrieve one of the Thai women from the cubicle next to mine - she had come to get her, and Thai Lady was still fully dressed. When the tech explained again that upper-body nekkid was needful, Thai Lady asked if there was a paper gown or something. The tech she sounded like she was trying not to laugh when she said that no, there was nothing. Poor Thai Lady. The knock came on my own door, and I sashayed out into the room - thankfully, I had put on good undies that morning. I was ushered into the x-ray machine, which looked like a photo booth, and had to press my front side to what looked like one of those targets at a shooting range. A big breath and a few seconds later, and I retired to my cube to dress. A few minutes after that and bam! I had my very own chest x-ray in hand.
Back in the waiting room once more, we waited for the next-to-last summons: the doctor. Patrick rode along on this one, now that he was back from his "break", and I expected a regular examining room and some poking and prodding, perhaps. I wanted Patrick there in case I needed words I didn't have in French. Nope, wrong again. The woman simply greeted us, grabbed the chest x-ray, slapped it on a light box, peered at it for a few seconds, said okay, and then asked me the same questions as the nurse. She did, as a doctor must, plead with me to quit smoking, but in a very nice way. She signed and stamped a piece of paper, gave it to me, and then we were "au revoir"ed out the door. Phew!
Lastly, it was back to Skinny Lady to give her the doc's signed okay that I wasn't a some sort of Typhoid Mary, and to give her the funny money-stamp-thingies. She carefully pasted them to a page with my info on it, clipped it to a lot of other paperwork we had sent to OFII previously, and then proceeded to print up a nifty little page that got plastered right into my passport, along with a very official-looking stamp (the rubber kind) and a shiny, holograph-y clear sticker that went right on top to seal it in. It looks very fancy and indicates that I am now firmly on the road to being Immigrated and Integrated.
I still have to go to a one-day French civics class in November (I am actually looking forward to it - I don't have to bring Patrick, as they will have English speakers there to help if I don't understand), and my carte de sejour is contingent upon my passing an oral and written test called the DILF in December, but I am not worried. I blithely walked while almost completely nekkid in front of a strange x-ray tech, and I didn't even blush. If I can ever figure out those stamp thingies on my own, I will be well on my way to really being at home here.
Oui!
You may have read about my first forays into the world of French immigration in much earlier blogs, back when I was getting the visa I needed to travel here. I have, since I arrived, and with the help of my husband, been to visit the French unemployment office (Pole d'Emploi) and the French equivalent of Social Security, to get myself registered and on their books. Both these things were done in the early days here, and neither was very traumatic. Registering with unemployment, also, made it possible for me to get hooked up with French language classes, which I finally started this week. More on that later.
I was told to expect, soon after I arrived, a summons to meet with someone or other in the French government for a "welcome meeting" - whatever that might entail, and a medical exam. I duly sent the necessary form to the appropriate office upon arriving (well, Patrick did, thank God for Patrick) and waited for word on this meeting. And waited, and waited some more. It seems that a whole hell of a lot of people have been immigrating/emigrating (and what exactly is the difference there? I've never known) just lately, and the welcome visits were a bit on the backed-up side. Finally, last month, a summons arrived. I was scheduled to appear in Montpellier (about two hours' drive) in early September, and a list was kindly included of the paperwork I needed to bring with me, and the fee that would be required.
Though many things in France are blessedly free of charge (like my French language classes, for example), some things - like a green card - do indeed carry a cost. A weighty one! Three hundred and thirty euros, to be exact. And you can't just write a check or present your debit card, either - oh, no, you must purchase these things that are sort of like postage stamps, instead. And it's not like you can get 3 hundred-euro ones, a 20, a 10, and 3 ones ... no, you're instructed instead to purchase a weird mix of 55 and 12 and 8-euro stamps, or something similar. It's a darned good thing they send you instructions, or you'd be liable to show up with the wrong mixture, and then I'm pretty sure you would go back on a waiting list for your meeting, and possibly be deported in the meantime. Anyway, it's no worse than some of the shenanigans I've lived through at an American DMV or the Social Security administration - bureaucracy is bureaucracy, no matter what country it is in. And besides, Patrick again came to my rescue and went to procure the weird stamps at city hall. He's my hero.
So, we arrived at the OFII (Office Francais de l'Immigration et de l'Integration) for The Visit. First, we went into a waiting room with chairs around the perimeter, which slowly filled with other people anxious to immigrate or integrate. There were folks from all over, but not much English, until a couple of Thai ladies entered with their French husbands - English was apparently the language they shared. Neither one of the Thai women appeared to understand a whole lot of French. We were also joined by what appeared to be a teenage mother with her vocally precocious (and by this, I mean he yelled a lot) son in a stroller and her dad. But wait - it wasn't her father, but actually her husband. (Seriously, the girl looked about 16 or 17.) Ew. Anyway, the room filled up, and then in came Really Skinny French Lady, to make a bored-sounding speech about a video we were all required to watch. Since I think everyone but me and the Thai ladies spoke French, her instructions were heeded, and we watched a lovely ten-minute film outlining the basic structure of French society and government. It had lots of lovely shots of Paris and of happy French people. I understood maybe half of it. Patrick whispered translations of salient points in my ear.
After that, the meetings began. This was a five-part process. You had to see one of the officials, so they could go over all your info and find out if you had a job, etc. You also had to have a visit with a nurse, a visit with a doctor, AND a visit to the x-ray room so that a chest x-ray could be taken, and then back to the original official to complete the final paperwork. Okay, then.
First, we met with Really Skinny French Lady. Patrick came with me for this one, and translated. We went over basic info, talked about the job I worked over the summer, the fact that I was already registered with the unemployment people, and what kind of jobs I might be looking for, based upon my job experience in the States. Then she told us I needed language classes (which we already pretty much knew) and attempted to give us the number of someone in Mende, where I would need to drive for classes. Patrick, having already talked to a lady in Marvejols (oodles closer than Mende) about classes there, told Skinny Lady we had already made arrangements. I was, in fact, scheduled to meet with Marvejols Lady the very next day. Skinny Lady pursed up her mouth and asserted that, very possibly, classes with Marvejols Lady would not fulfill my immigration and integration requirements. Patrick very coolly observed that since her name had been provided to us by the unemployment office, also a government office, she should be just fine. A number of terse telephone calls were made, and at the end of things, it was determined that the name of Marvejols Lady was actually the same (as was the phone number) as the woman that was on Skinny Lady's list for Mende. I promised to be sure to ask about this discrepancy when I saw Marvejols Lady tomorrow. Skinny Lady looked like she wanted to be more sure, but hey, there was a waiting room full of folks to see. We were dismissed.
Patrick escaped for some fresh air and a smoke, and I waited for Meeting Two. It was the nurse. I followed her into a small consult room and, through the use of my much-mangled French and her very few words of English, the first day of my last period was established, along with the facts that I had no major illnesses or diseases, was not pregnant, had not been hospitalized for anything in the past several years, and that I thought my vaccinations were up-to-date. When I said I didn't have my vaccination records with me, she was completely nonchalant, shrugged, and said I could see a doctor in my village if I was concerned about it. Okay, then. Stage Two, complete.
Back to the waiting room, which was starting to thin out as people were off to their various meetings. A few minutes later, I was called back for the chest x-ray. The tech took me to a changing room and explained (in English, actually - boy, was I glad of that) that in France, they don't use lead vests, and that you must be unclothed from the waist up for a chest x-ray. Oh-kay. As I was wearing a dress, I asked her should I shuck the whole thing? She replied that yep, that was what was called for, but I could, of course, leave my underwear on. Delightful. She closed the door and I undressed and then sat reading a book in my panties until she knocked for me to come out. In this interval, I heard her try to retrieve one of the Thai women from the cubicle next to mine - she had come to get her, and Thai Lady was still fully dressed. When the tech explained again that upper-body nekkid was needful, Thai Lady asked if there was a paper gown or something. The tech she sounded like she was trying not to laugh when she said that no, there was nothing. Poor Thai Lady. The knock came on my own door, and I sashayed out into the room - thankfully, I had put on good undies that morning. I was ushered into the x-ray machine, which looked like a photo booth, and had to press my front side to what looked like one of those targets at a shooting range. A big breath and a few seconds later, and I retired to my cube to dress. A few minutes after that and bam! I had my very own chest x-ray in hand.
Back in the waiting room once more, we waited for the next-to-last summons: the doctor. Patrick rode along on this one, now that he was back from his "break", and I expected a regular examining room and some poking and prodding, perhaps. I wanted Patrick there in case I needed words I didn't have in French. Nope, wrong again. The woman simply greeted us, grabbed the chest x-ray, slapped it on a light box, peered at it for a few seconds, said okay, and then asked me the same questions as the nurse. She did, as a doctor must, plead with me to quit smoking, but in a very nice way. She signed and stamped a piece of paper, gave it to me, and then we were "au revoir"ed out the door. Phew!
Lastly, it was back to Skinny Lady to give her the doc's signed okay that I wasn't a some sort of Typhoid Mary, and to give her the funny money-stamp-thingies. She carefully pasted them to a page with my info on it, clipped it to a lot of other paperwork we had sent to OFII previously, and then proceeded to print up a nifty little page that got plastered right into my passport, along with a very official-looking stamp (the rubber kind) and a shiny, holograph-y clear sticker that went right on top to seal it in. It looks very fancy and indicates that I am now firmly on the road to being Immigrated and Integrated.
I still have to go to a one-day French civics class in November (I am actually looking forward to it - I don't have to bring Patrick, as they will have English speakers there to help if I don't understand), and my carte de sejour is contingent upon my passing an oral and written test called the DILF in December, but I am not worried. I blithely walked while almost completely nekkid in front of a strange x-ray tech, and I didn't even blush. If I can ever figure out those stamp thingies on my own, I will be well on my way to really being at home here.
Oui!
Saturday, September 11, 2010
The Lure of Ricard
Hello, my lovelies. It's been a while, hasn't it? I'm afraid I've been caught up in my day-to-day living, and have shamefully neglected you. Ah, well, let's try to remedy the neglect, shall we?
For all of you out there who have never visited France, there is something you should know. The French love anything anise-flavored. Candy, mints, and most especially ... Ricard. Every bar and cafe hereabouts has a bottle or ten of this aperitif ready to pour at all times, and I am going to do my best to explain it. In my own opinion, it is possibly the foulest-tasting stuff on the planet, but the French enjoy it mightily, and perhaps, as the years go by, my taste buds will become accustomed. Who knows.
Ricard (and other local variants of the liqueur, called pastis) is simply an anise-flavored liqueur, somewhat like Galliano, or Jagermeister, or ouzo. What really differs is the serving of it. You don't drink Ricard neat; instead, a couple of ounces are poured into a snifter (usually with the Ricard logo printed on it - the Ricard folks are no slouches when it comes to promotional materials, especially glassware), either with or without an ice cube, according to taste ... and then, you top it off by pouring in a measure of cold water before drinking. This still sounds pretty typical for any sort of liquor, but the water actually changes the color of it, so that the clear, kind of light amber of the liqueur itself now is a milky yellowish-white, looking disturbingly like skim milk. And then you drink it. And it tastes like black jellybeans. As an old friend of mine would always say, oy vey.
I've noticed that, on the whole, it seems to be much more a man's drink than a ladies' drink, but that doesn't mean I haven't seen plenty of women quaffing this beverage from time to time. One would think that the French national drink would have to be wine - and wine is important here, no doubt - but Ricard seems to give the vineyards a run for their money in terms of customer loyalty. People sit and chat with each other for hours, with a bottle of Ricard on the bar and a flagon of water between them, refilling and topping off their glasses countless times as the evening goes by. I've tasted it myself, and almost ran screaming down the street as my taste buds were saturated with the oily and slightly medicinal taste of licorice, but I am definitely in the minority here, as far as the wonders of Ricard are concerned. Again, maybe this is how I will know that I have assimilated into French society - when offered a Ricard, I will happily accept and even drink it without wanting to tear out my own tongue. But then, I was never a fan of Jagermeister or anything similar, either. Ew.
Instead, I stick to beer when I can (mostly light lagers, which are most popular here), the occasional glass of house red or white, and, more and more increasingly, whiskey and water. I haven't had a gin and tonic in quite some time - gin seems to be missing from the drinks menu in most establishments hereabouts - not too popular, I gather. Although to me, the leap from anise flavoring to juniper is not all that far, and you can always get a tonic water, wherever you go ... but I can buy gin in the liquor store or at the grocery, so my love of a good G&T can at least be indulged at home!
One last note: here, it is perfectly acceptable to order a beer sweetened with flavored sirop. I am not kidding. Grenadine, mint, or peach syrup are the most common, though I guess you could tell them to put in whatever they had on hand - strawberry, blackcurrant, lemon, orange ... There is a disturbing concoction called a Monaco that is beer, grenadine syrup, and limonade, which is like 7-UP. Basically, a Shirley Temple with beer in it. I made several of these for people while I was working at the campground, and the expression on people's faces as they sipped them always seemed to be, Ah - how refreshing. I myself am not convinced of this, and have steered clear. Between licorice-flavored stuff and sweet beers, there is enough evidence, in my opinion, to stick with the old tried-and-true staples of beer, wine, and whiskey. No surprises there. If you like licorice, though, then France is the place for you. There is a bar stool, pitcher of water, snifter glass, and bottle of Ricard right here waiting for you.
Pronunciation guide:
Ricard: ree-CAHR
pastis: pass-TEE
sirop: sear-OH
Monaco: mohn-ah-COH
limonade: lee-moh-NOD
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