Banking in France

We have hired my friend’s American babysitter to spend some time with the kiddos so we can get out. It is really hard to get the kids out, since they prefer playing “at home” to schlepping around outside.  With our time alone yesterday what so you think we did? Most folks visiting Paris would go to the Louvre or the Notre Dame or take a boat ride on the Seine.

We went to the bank.

We still have our French bank account, since Clay often works for French publishers. You can't get an apartment in France without a bank account and usually you can't get a bank account without a residential address in France.

One of those choice French conundrums.

So even though we pay an annual fee, we don't want to close our account.  However, changing the address on our account is a major deal that requires lots of paperwork and documents and meetings. Our ATM cards expired six months ago, and for the past ten years we have been required to pick the cards up at the bank.  So, we've been waiting for this trip to Paris to trek to our old bank and retrieve our ATM cards.

After waiting in line, the teller (who is very nice an that's another reason I want to stay with this particular branch) informs us they were sent to our old address.  The one we moved out of two years ago.  With the cards MIA, we need to give a new French address.  Which of course we don't have.  We could easily give a friends’ address, but we have to show proof of residency there.

Clay asks if our former bank contact is here Monsieur D.  Yes, he happens to be in his office right now.  So, we pop up (very unFrench - the French don't do pop ins.  This actually was a relief to me when we lived here because in Italy they are a matter of course and I feel I am constantly risking offending friends by not "popping in" every time we drive by. Also, when the kids were babies I dreaded the pop-in.   There was inevitably a knock on the door just as I was nursing a baby or had gotten one to sleep or had just secured myself a few Minutes of quiet.

Monsieur D. greeted us graciously and after an hour, we worked out the challenge of inputting our new contact info into the computer (and yes one should be able to easily do this remotely by login on but of course we have been unable to log on since our French mobile is no longer active. So basically it is impossible to edit our account without showing up in person - in Paris - and meeting with Monsieur D.

After many security codes and questions, birthdays, marriage dates and mothers maiden names our accounts were edited.  Monsieur explained that the USA has enforced a new law prohibiting French banks from advising American clients in any way. Some distortion of the privacy act I assume, but basically means that he wouldn't be able to help us with our account if we hadn’t stopped in for a chat.

Good lord!

Our account sorted, the conversation turned as it always does in Italy or France (or maybe just with Clay) to food.  Knowing that Madame D. is Vietnamese and adores cooking, Clay asked where Madame D. shops for her ingredients since he plans on filling the car before we head back to Italy.  This prompted an extensive three-way discussion with Madame D. on speakerphone with Monsieur D. and Clay, debating the spelling of Bahn Cun and the differences between Chinese and Vietnamese noodles.

I was getting worried about wrapping things up in time to take the metro back across town because I knew the sitter would have to leave for her real job (guiding tourists up the Eiffel Tower.)

Ingredient list in one hand and Monsieur D’s personal mobile number in the other, (only to be used for personal/ food related discussions not bank issues) we strolled out an hour and a half later.  We had thirty minutes to complete the rest of our errands: roast chicken and éclairs for the girls and baguette and fromage for Clay before hopping the metro home and racing back up our stinky stairwell (the sewage problem has not been rectified).

That's the difference between being a tourist and living somewhere.

 The metro without tantrums! What a difference!

 Ballet at the Palais Royale

 Clay's FAVORITE Udon restaurant. Papa/Petite date.  Petite actually ate the broth even though there were greens in it!

Ma petite Parisienne avec sa parapluie. 

 The famous store. Repetto, right next to our apt.  Bambina spent the week trying to talk me into buying her toe shoes.

 Scootering along the Seine.

 Canoeing at the Jardin D'Acclimation - one of the best parks ever.

 Bambina doing interpretative dance of the "New pjs and rain boots"

 Places des Vosges

 Walking along the Seine

Scootering - this purchase has SAVED me because now no one is complaining that they need to be carried!

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

FRENCH APPLIANCES

FRENCH APPLIANCES – they never work *I have spent years struggling with French appliances: ovens, washers, tea pots, electric stoves, fuses that blows. You’d think that my ONE day on vacation, the washing machine could just FUNCTION. He takes the kids to search for food and I shlep round the corner to the Laundromat. After filling the machines and putting in my five euros in coins I can’t get the washer to turn on. It’s hot, I’m sweating and no matter what I do, the machine wont start. Of course there is no attendant. Theres a mobile number scratched on the wall but I don’t have a cell phone and I don’t have much faith in a Laundromat attendant rushing to my aid. I decide to take the clothes out of the machine and try another Laundromat. I add the lost five euros to the 68 euros the hotel won’t refund. So far, Paris has cost me 73 euros for a hotel room I am not staying in a washing machine that won’t work. I finally get the machines open, pile the laundry into my bags and shlep it down the street to another Laundromat. 12 euros later and I’ve got two loads running. I head to the shopping street I know Hubbie is wandering with the girls, collecting picnic items. Miss Pudding is virtually starving. She practically reaches into the rotisserie at the boucherie to pull out a roasted chicken. So Hubbie stops at a bench across from the metro station. It is still sweltering. He pulls out the chicken and starts feeding it to the girls, like feeding little babies. They devour it. Meanwhile I realize I have to wait for the laundry, to toss it into the dryer, if we want it done before the Laundromat closes tonight. Or risk Hubbie heading to Bordeaux with no clothes. I head back to the hot Laundromat and wait for the washing to end so that I can pop it into the dryer. I’ve told Hubbie to go ahead and take the girls – he promised to take Petite to visit her old French school, requiring a metro trip (I would have avoided that and hung around our neighborhood). I told him to go ahead and visit the school (view it from the outside) and I’ll meet them in the park nearby that Petite used to play in daily. #France #Paris #appliances #travel #motherhood

Sunny California

So we just moved back to San Francisco after 7 years back and forth between Paris and Italy. Bittersweet. Especially after a challenging month of "transition" in Italy which was meant to be "relaxing" but began with Bebe getting hit by a car and ended with me being seriously ill for weeks. Fun. We landed in SF exactly as we had NOT meant to - feeling like we were refugees. After all of our planning to return calm and rested. I think this is an impossible task with two small children under any circumstances. On the drive from the airport to my mom's house (where the four of us are crashing as husband and I frantically search for a place to live. Miraculously we got both kids into charter school - an impossible feat - but can't find a place to rent!) - we arrived smack in the midst of Gay Pride. The kids staring out the window at a man strolling down the street wearing a backpack and sandals. And that's all. Welcome to SF! After years of manhandling my kids into "appropriate dress" in Paris ("appropriate" by Paris standards does NOT include my kids' favorite outfits: 1. fairy wings, 2. Dora the Explorer Nightgowns. 3. No pants).

So far things have gone well (minus Bebe's current dislike for the Golden Gate bridge, which we cross every day to go to camp. No idea what her opposition is but every day I hear "OH NO! NOT THE Golden Gate BRIDGE!" with La Petite chiming in chorus "Not the bridge!"

Yesterday, Grandma and I took the kiddos on what was meant to be a kid-friendly outing to see children's theatre. The show was at the Fairfax Community Theatre. Fairfax is the epitome of birckenstock/organic/family friendly/ LIBERAL/"peace" - it's where all those folks still stuck in the 60s venture to live. The home of "peace and love".

So we are in the theatre. The show is horrid. I mean, I have seen a LOT of theatre and i have an extremely high tolerance for anything that keeps my kids entertained, but this was pretty intolerable. Bebe was entranced (I think the Pirate costumes had something to do with that). And La Petite was chattering away, as three year olds do, We tried to keep her voice to a whisper but, as all kids, she had several comments she was just dying to make. After years of shushing kids and trying to keep them quiet and still in Paris, I was relieved to be in a kid friendly, casual atmosphere.

Oh did I mention that there were ten people in the entire audience? So this lady behind me taps me on the shoulder and says "i think it is highly inappropriate that you have brought your daughter. She is disturbing the actors!" It was all I could do not to retort "these actors are so awful I don't think an 8.0 earthquake would disturb them." They all appeared to be walking coma victims. You have to work pretty hard to appear this inanimate while performing on stage.

I couldn't deal with a fight. Or more of the horrible show, so we left. Bebe was disappointed. Surprisingly she had been entranced and now we had to explain why we were leaving.

So we went to feed the ducks at the Palace of Fine Arts. A sure fire hit with the kids and what could go wrong? Feeding the ducks was a regular activity for me growing up.

Bebe recovered from her disappointment, and for the first time seemed to have overcome her fear of the swans. She was proudly tossing them bits of bread when a voice booms over my shoulder "YOU! STOP feeding the ducks! You are making them fat! You are ruining them!"

I turned to see a livid old man, shaking with fury. What is going on here? Bebe was upset and I could tell she was about to start crying. I pulled myself up to my full 5'2" height and told him"Back off buddy! Today we are feeding the ducks!"

What the hell is going on here? I don't eat foie gras. I barely eat meat. I am all for save the planet, the animals, the planets, the air , the water. But for goodness sake since when did it become an act of cruelty to take your kid to feed the damn ducks?

Friendly Bay Area aint as friendly as I thought!

Hair Free in Paree

I had a doctor’s appointment scheduled for the end of the week. Several acquaintances told me that a visit to the doctor in France requires a full undressing, no gown and a significant dose of immodesty. No matter that I might have something as simple as having a freckle on my nose looked at, I would likely be asked to bare all.

While I have observed the attention to detail French women give to their facial and head hair, I wondered what that could mean about other bodily regions? I have already learned that the French place a high value on presentation and aesthetics.

Meandering along the streets of Paris I have noticed this attention to detailed aesthetics is evident everywhere: patisseries show off perfectly sculpted chocolates; fromageries carefully display each cheese at its intoxicating ripeness, and florists arrange even the smallest bouquet as if it were being presented to royalty.

Of course, I contemplated, a doctor wouldn't be critical about one's “presentation” in a medical exam, would they? In a culture where regular aesthetic maintenance appears mandatory, wouldn't the doctor be compelled to notice my uncoiffed specimen?

If I risked offending my boulangerie showing up in yoga pants to buy a baguette, what would the GYN's reaction be to my unmanicured nether regions?

While occasional waxing at the local nail salon was sufficient to appear "maintained" in San Francisco, in Paris I immediately noticed that women's facial hair seems scrupulously maintained. Not an errant whisker, nor the shadow of an unplucked brow. Were these women all meticulously plucking their brows in the middle of the night? I scrutinized women on the street and lounging in cafes. Even in the crisp fall sunlight I rarely saw an unwanted hair that dared show itself.

If their eyebrows were so meticulously sculpted, what could one guess
regarding the standards for body hair in general?

Clearly I was in need of professional help. Luckily, across the rue is a small salon dedicated to the removal of unwanted hair from all bodily regions. It took me a couple of trips and a consult with my dictionary to ascertain what hair I wanted removed exactly from my body.

Bolstered with my new vocabulary for "brows" and "bikini" I ventured
forth and soon found myself lying, spread-eagle on the treatment
table. As every woman knows, a bikini wax is a wholly unpleasant and uncomfortably painful process. If we expected men to get waxed,
estheticians would be out of business. I am certain that the bikini wax
will be viewed as a primitive torture device by future beings in centuries to come.

The saving grace is that it is usually swift and short, even if excruciating. In San Francisco I'd pop into my local nail salon for a quick wax - ten minutes in and out, hair free. The Parisian esthetician takes her work no less seriously than the
Boulanger or the Poissoniere. While the baker is careful to bake each baguette with the care and attention his family has boasted for generations, the Poissioniere takes pride in selecting the freshest fish for his customers and giving explicit instructions on how to cook it. Forty seconds on each side, no more and no less.

Likewise, the aesthetician takes pride in her work as an art, as I was soon to find out. Wax and rip, wax and rip. I was accustomed to a few applications of hot wax followed by a few excruciating rips, and then pants back on and out the door. In Paris, after the initial painful rips, I was ready to call it a day, when the aesthetician took my left leg, raised it over my head and proceeded from an entirely different angle. Clearly she meant business. I have not often been in such an intimate position with anyone. I didn't even know her name.

After several different contortions reminiscent of an Iyengar yoga class, she seemed to be winding down. I looked at my watch. I'd already been there for half an hour! I watched with relief as she turned away towards the side table, only to observe, with horror, that she was returning with a minute set of tweezers and a ruler. She carefully measured and plucked, certain to maintain a symmetric, even line.

Fifteen torturous minutes later she handed me a mirror. I was supposed to inspect this? She was beaming with pride, showing off her artistic creation. Unsure of the proper response I murmured that it looked like. a very nice job. She pointed out the symmetry of my new hairline and asked something in French which I interpreted as an inquiry as to whether I wanted her to continue. Erring on the side of conservatism, I politely declined, assuring her that yes, it was a fine piece of work and perhaps next time she would be given more artistic license.

A few days later, I arrived at the doctor’s office for my appointment, primped, coiffed and coutured. After an in-depth consult and a review of my medical history, the doctor advised that we should wait and schedule the actual exam for the following month. What?! I nodded mutely, filled with dread, not of a return to the doctor but of the excruciating preparation I would have to endure.

I’ve now bought a monthly pass to the Salon. Just like a discount pass for the movies, if I am a frequent customer I get a discount. If I must spend this much effort for a doctor’s appointment, imagine what will be required to prepare for a weekend at the beach?

French Trains

Last week we did a mad dash to Italy to sign for our loan, check on renovations and try and get a jump on furnishing the place.  I realize we were doing the exact same thing a year ago! A year ago this week, this is what was going on:

We are on the train returning to Paris after dealing with renovations of our farmhouse in Piemonte, Italy. This train ride is uneventful compared to the ride here a week ago!

We bought a "family discount" card for the train - recommended by the SNCF (French train) office. The ticket office told us that Isabelle entitles us all to a discount. We get 25-50 percent off of our two tickets and Isabelle gets a seat for free! It turns out that it is cheaper for the three of us to travel first class on the family card than to travel second class at the normal rates.

The card only works in France. We park our car in Oulx, just on the Italian side of the Frejus tunnel. We decided on Oulx because Clay is terrified of driving through tunnels (but somehow feels better going through on board a train?) and also because the tunnel toll is something like 30 euros. We might as well stay on the train.

So what we've done is buy our ticket to the furthest stop in France (just before the tunnel) via the family card, and then plan to buy a ticket just for the one stop through the tunnel to Oulx, Italy.

Last week, we happily boarded the train and found our three comfy seats in first class, feeling quite posh and cozy I was nursing Isabelle when the conductor (actually conductress,) came by to ask for our tickets. I showed her our tickets accompanied by our "enfant discount" card.

She shook her head at me, “No Madame. (This is not the right card”

Huh? “C’est la carte d’enfant.”

“(French – No it is not. This is the frequent riders card”
She looked at me in that way the French have mastered over centuries. There is a certain sense of “je ne sais quoi”, absolute “rightness” that the French have embraced. It is part of their cultural identity. Whether you are in line at the boulangerie, or a passenger on a train, the customer is never right. Especially if the customer is not French.

She looked down her nose at me as I readjusted the blanket I was using to try and give Isabelle some privacy while nursing. Bella kept throwing it off in disdain, preferring to have a good open view of the scene while she is slurping her lunch.

“(French) This card entitles you to the points. So that you can buy what you would like in the SNCF shop”?

Some ridiculous scheme wherein one acquires points for the train ride which one can redeem for goods from the SNCF (France trains) store. Why anyone would ever want to buy something from the French transport system, I've no idea, but the upshot was that we were not carrying the correct card.

“(French) this is not the correct card. You must have the other paper. Didn’t they give you the document when you bought the card?”

Apparently what we were required to show was proof that we had purchased the card. No matter that having the stupid points card should be proof enough - how could we have the points card without having purchased the discount card? But what we needed to show was the paper receipt from the purchase of the card, with the date of purchase and child's age clearly stated.

We tried to argue logically: how could we possibly have this dumb points card if we hadn't purchased the actual card? We explained that this was the first time we had used it, that when we bought the card (requiring a long wait at the train office) they told us that once we received the plastic, wallet friendly card (the points card), we should carry and show that. We had left the receipt and accompanying cumbersome (non wallet friendly) paperwork at home because we had no idea we had to bring and show that.

“(French) Perhaps this card is not valid. It may be old and expired. I need the receipt to verify”

We pointed to Isabelle, and her passport, and argued that since she was only 7 months old we could not possibly have an expired card (over a year old).

“(French) perhaps this card is from another child”

Oh please. I was losing patience. Did she really think that I had either the time or energy to go through these shenanigans? That I would go to that much effort to try and cheat the system so that we could ride the train at the family discount? Yes, that is what she thought. Because the French are experts at cheating the system. The French see it as a coup, a success, if you can manage to cheat the system in any little way.

“(French) Madame, je suis tres desolee. C’est notre premiere fois a utiliser cette carte.” I look at her imploringly, Isabelle still sucking away with interest, the drama unfolding for her personal entertainment. Look, we are clearly new at this (being parents, traveling the French rails with a family card) and we are obviously foreigners, clueless to this intricate system. The train office misinformed us, we left the paperwork at home, what are we to do?

“(in French) You must pay the different in cost. The difference between the discounted rate and the cost for a2 first class tickets bought today” She looks at me straight faced and expectantly. “That comes to….400 euros”

Double to cost of our original tickets. Are you kidding me? I’ve got a baby on the boob and I have explained that we don’t know what we are doing.

She looked at us blankly. “Of course not I am not joking” (Oh right. I forgot that the French have zero sense of humor) “. You must pay the difference now - or we will have the police escort you off the train”. I have a baby on the boob and you are going to KICK us off the train? “When you return to Paris, take your documents and ticket to the train office, explain and they will refund your money”.

OK, not only did we have to wait in line, in person, with the baby, to purchase the tickets in the first place, but now I have to go wait in line again, with the baby, to get a refund? In order to use the family discount card, you must go to a train office and wait in line to buy your tickets in person, rather than buying them on the internet. So, ultimately, the people with children are the ones who have to schlep to the office, take a number and wait in an irritating line (like the post office, the train ticket office seems to always have a line. I have gone to both at all hours of the day and there always seems to be an exceedingly long line).

We tried in vain to argue reasonably, even enlisting the help of the couple across from us who overheard (who in the car couldn’t overhear this argument?). The conductor brought over her “manager”, who, after a quick look at our tickets and card, not missing Isabelle slurping away on me, looked at us deadpan and stated that if we did not pay the difference immediately the police would escort us off of the train.

We finally had no choice but to pay up. Clay first tried his French ATM card which (thankfully) didn't work. Mine didn't work. Now I was furious because we had already agreed to pay the damn thing, bringing the cost of our train tickets now up to $500, and their damn machine clearly wasn't working!!! It finally accepted our Am Ex card. At least now the funds wouldn’t be debited out of our account. We could argue an AmEx charge

After that hullabaloo, we realized our train was terminating in Modane. We had a very slim chance of catching a connecting train to Oulx. If we were lucky, we'd have a 10-minute gap and be able to catch the only other train.

Unsurprisingly, our train was delayed and we missed the only connection by 10 minutes. Dragging our luggage, stroller and Isabelle, we considered our options. Which were slim. The next (and only) bus would leave in 4 hours, at 4pm. We would have to wait. However that bus wasn't going as far as Oulx. It would stop one town short, in Bardinnechio, where we would have to find a cab to take us to out car in Oulx.

I was so frustrated. Here we had bought the damn discount card, which meant we were put on the wrong part of the train, the part that wasn't going all the way to our destination, and because of the stupid card, we were now paying double to be stranded part way!

We called our Italian friend whose son lives in Bardenecchio, 10 minutes from our car park. Being the saintly family that they are John told us he would be there in a couple of hours to pick us up and drive us through the tunnel to Oulx where our car was parked. We settled in for a particularly bad pizza (as Clay commented "haven't they ever just driven through the tunnel to Italy and tried REAL pizza?") and waited for John.
Bella spent her time riding the suitcases (her new game): she stands on the suitcase and holds onto the extended handle, sort of "surfing".

John arrived at 3pm, complete with car seat in his SUV and loaded us up. What an angel. We finally arrived at our car at 4pm.

And you will never guess what we did then.

Drove to Ikea.

We had to. We are under deadline to furnish this house and, seeing as how Isabelle hates the car, the prospect of spending Sunday driving back to go to Ikea sounded even more hellish than spending Saturday night there.

I was apprehensive about Bella's tolerance for home furnishing shopping (seeing as I have none) at all, let alone after the long day we had already had, but I didn't count on the fact that to her Ikea is a giant playland. Especially in Italy.

Open spaces full of mattresses to crawl on, sofas to climb on, and new people to interact with.

What to me is a nightmare of crowds (yes, Sat night it was packed with crowds like the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade), to Isabelle is a plethora of new faces to socialize with.

If you've got to go to Ikea (my idea of hell), go in Italy. Italians are so warm and welcoming, especially to children, and Ikea is no exception.

I've always been baffled by what seems a tedious system of ordering furniture there. The little note cards and pencils, the waiting in line for some helpless person to assist you. Someone who is supposed to input your order into the computer, but whom you are never able to find. Then waiting in another long line to pay just so you can navigate some maze through another building where you have to go find your purchases in the depths of a warehouse. By now you just want to leave even though you've paid for everything, forget it, just get out. Save yourself! Run!

Because otherwise you now have to determine how you're going to get all of those "bargain buys" into the trunk of your car. A trunk that's already filled with suitcases.

The Italian staff couldn't have been more friendly, chatting with us about colors and sizes and suggesting that we. Have everything delivered. Delivered? Everything?

With Isabelle in the stroller, we had somehow been barely managing to maneuver three industrial sized carts filled with linens, pillows and bed coverings for 5 beds, towels, kitchenware and other household crap, just barely avoiding knocking over small children on our way to the checkout line.

Yes! Please deliver! We've been traveling since 5am, our baby is still in her PJs (now exhausted after her gymnastics marathon trying out every bed in the mattress section) and we've got another hour to drive tonight.

We paid up, took our lengthy list of items, trusting in faith that they will show up at our house sometime before our first guests arrive in June, and thankfully left. Bella fell asleep as soon as we started the engine. Despite my newfound appreciation for Ikea, I'll order online next time.

Petite Americani

I just finished reading "petite anglaise".  I bought it at WH Smith in Paris on a rare day when Bebe had 4 consecutive hours of babysitting.  I had planned on visiting the L'Orangerie, perhaps taking a walk in the Tuilleries, maybe even some intellectual stimulation by reading a newspaper - in French to improve my linguistic skills.  

Instead, I spent 3 hours parked at a table in Angelina (touristy, I know but it felt indulgent and it is practically next door to WH Smith), reading "Petite Anglaise" (www.petiteanglaise.com).  Being an anglo mom in Paris, I was desperate to hear of someone else's experience.  

For weeks, I was looking forward to attending her reading.  I made sure Hubbie would be home in time to babysit.  When the moment of departure came, I was just zonked.  Sprawling out on the sofa seemed much more appealing than 2 metro rides to get to the reading.  

As I tell every other mom, raising a baby (especially a toddler) takes every ounce of energy and it's ok to take any opportunity to just flop.  

cooking with bebe