Showing posts with label Americans abroad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Americans abroad. Show all posts

Monday, 15 September 2014

La Dolce Vita - with SNAKES?

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Yesterday we had a rare day to ourselves at the villa. We spent the day letting the kids have a swim.  It was blissful. Bambina swam for the first time without arm floats and she was so proud.  We came home already a bit on edge, aware that school was starting the next day.  As I was unpacking the car I heard Petite scream Snake! Snake!"  Since she has taken to joking around lately, I assumed this was another attempt at comedy.  But when she came running over to me, scared as hell, I realized she wasn't kidding.  I ran over to the house and Hubbie confirmed that he had seen the end of a snake's black tail wiggling into the frame of our front door.  I stood there in shock.  First mice, then cats, now snakes?   I can handle bears in the wilderness, coyotes, wolves, wild boar, fox.   Large animals in the outdoors don't bother me.  Snakes IN MY HOUSE scare the hell out of me.  My first thought was that it had squirmed under the front door into the house.  I wanted to scream in terror but I had to keep calm for Petite's sake. She was hysterical with fear, "I'm not going in the house! Never!"  Bambina seemed nonplussed, dancing around the courtyard, singing to her kittens, "Hey kitties! There's a snakity-snake-snake-snakity-snake snake!"  I felt like throwing up or running away.  I briefly contemplated packing the kids into the car and going to a hotel.  Which I probably would have done if I had been alone with just one baby but I realized that I couldn't realistically hole up in a tiny hotel room with two kids.  I mean, when would I come back to the house? How could I be assured that it was gone?"  My next thought was to call someone. But whom? We are in the countryside. In Italy. Snakes are a matter of course.  

I grabbed a mop and tentatively opened the front door, wielding the stick as a weapon.  I think I expected to see it curled up in the corner, but I didn't see a thing.  Hubbie insisted it was hiding in the door jam.  Petite hopped up and down outside yelling, "I'm sleeping in the car! I"m never going in the house!"  Bambina was still singing to her kittens.  Hubbie had gone in the office door and was busying himself at his desk.  Hello? What am I supposed to do about this snake? Um.....can't just leave it!  Mice freak me out but I realize there are traps.  What to do about snakes? I quickly posted on facebook "what to do about snake in doorjamb?" My brother said not to worry because the snake will eat the mice.  Another friend suggested that I google poisonous snakes.  My mother said to get a rake and try to retrieve it.  Seriously, whom to call for advice?  Snakes outside I could avoid.   But what if it was in the house? I remembered horror stories of snakes coming up through toilets, having wormed their way into plumbing.  

Bambina pirouetted past me and leaped upstairs, clearly unfazed as she went right through the snake door, "I'm going upstairs! No snakes there!" she danced her way up.  I still stood, wielding the mop, wondering what to do now.  Hubbie came through the office, "We need to make dinner and move along. Tomorrow is a school day!"

OK, it's not like I am trying to DAWDLE here, but may I remind you, that a SNAKE has wedged itself inside our door and WHAT exactly am I supposed to do about it?  My main fear was that it would get inside.

Eventually I coaxed Petite to climb inside via the living room window (bypassing the snake door).  I duck taped the space under the front door, turned on a spot light and, at our friend's suggestion, placed the CD player next to the front door, hoping to scare it away by blasting Sarah McLachlan.  Bambina came down and remarked, "Oh, is that music for the snake?"  Hubbie was now fully obsessed with dinner preparations and insisted everyone sit at the table, snake or no snake.  I grabbed a bottle of wine.  Hubbie asked, "Would you prefer white or red tonight?"  "Anything with alcohol!" I replied.  Note to self:  ask mother in law to bring valium.  Bambina happily sat down and wolfed down two plates of spaghetti.  Petite, thankfully, had shifted from snake anxiety to school anxiety (which I felt better prepared to handle).   After two hours of calming and cuddling (internally keeping myself from having my own panic attack as I tried not to focus on the uninvited guest in the doorframe)  I got both girls to sleep.  I made sure the downstairs lights were on, turned the radio up and eventually fell asleep, hoping that the snake showed himself out.

Saturday, 17 August 2013

Credit Cards in France

CREDIT CARDS IN FRANCE I’ve driven from Paris to Italy so many times; this shouldn’t be a problem. Only thing is Mary’s house is in a teeny tiny town outside of another teeny town off the autoroute, somewhere in Burgundy. Thank god for GPS. Hubbie left me his Citibank debit card. I take 100 euros cash out before we leave, just in case. I’m so used to being able to use a debit card for everytihng in the USA, I forget that France doesn’t’ work the same way. Unless the card is from a French bank (mine was stolen), there’s a fifty percent chance the credit card won’t work. I’m reminded of this when I reach our first pay tolls (I had gotten used to the free auto routes in Austria) and my credit card is rejected. I pay the 24.50 euros in cash. Next pay toll we reach I insist on using my card. I know it works and I’m not willing to use up all my cash at the damn toll booths. I insert my card and it is refused. I ring the “help” button and explain, in French, that my card is refused but I know that it works. The barely audible voice on the other end asks me to pay cash. Using one of the French’s favorite phrases I insist that is not possible. Traffic building behind me, I wait. A few minutes later two young attendants stroll over. They are in no hurry. Why should they be? They get paid either way. They ring the help button and begin the absurd discussion of why my card won’t work. They try to insert it like an ATM card (as French bank cards work this way, not by “swiping”), I explain that the card has to be swiped. The three of them mull this over , examining the card, turning it over. It never ceases to amaze me how perplexed the French are over foreign credit cards. It’s a Citibank Mastercard for goodness sake. They finally swipe the card and we are on our way. #credit cards #France #travel with children #autoroute #29vsl