AliThinks

F.R.A.N.C.E.

One of the first things I learned at the Alliance Française was that the French are notorious for their use of acronyms.  This seemed strange to me, because I had always thought that the French were all about the beauty of their language. 

Not that they aren't, but acronyms pepper their speech and writing.  One of the most famous newscasters here is known by his initials, PPDA.  There are so many other examples I could give to make my point, but I'm really tired and don't much feel like spending half an hour explaining.  I will say that every teacher in the country knows what the B.O. is, and I'm not talking about their scent after a hard day of teaching, either. 

So today I went to the post office (I mean the P.O.) to give them a letter I'd received.  No one by that name lives here, and I said as much to the worker behind the glass. 

She took the letter (ironically enough from La Poste itself, from their financial services branch), scribbled on the bar code at the bottom of the envelope, and said in a self-satisfied manner, "Ça, c'est un NPAI."  It took a lot for me not to laugh out loud.  NPAI (say it with me, En Pa Ay Ee) means "N'habite pas à l'adresse indiquée."

Oh hell, I might be too tired to explain why the lady at the post office made me laugh with her official NPAI label.  It was just funny, that's all. 

Now let's see how funny you can be.  I dare you to come up with a phrase for the "acronym" in the title of this post.  I'll go first, but it might suck: Furry Rodents Are Not Carrying Ebola.

Your turn now.

Pee and Poodles

I had to go to the laundromat today.  My washing machine isn't big enough to handle my duvet.  I woke up this morning because of a wet spot.  On my duvet.

Get your mind out of the gutter!

One of those damn kittens had peed on my duvet.  Damn kittens.  Can't have anything nice. 

I thought I would carry my duvet down to the dry cleaners after lunch.  When I got down there, I saw a sign: CLOSED from August 15th to September 5th. 

SDF

She accosted me as I was leaving the library with the children.  Perhaps accost is not the right word.  She walked quickly toward me, her voice raised, asking if I knew of a contact number for someone at the mairie, or town hall, which was the building right behind us.

As she approached, I could make her out better.  Dusk was falling, but I could see the long grey hair, one half of it held in a ponytail at the side of her head.  The other half lay lank on her shoulder.  Her eyes were deepset and worried.  She spoke to me again, and I could see that most of her top teeth were missing.  Her shapeless clothes covered a body certainly more petite than mine.

"Do you know how I can get in touch with the mairie?  They gave me a place to stay, but they cut off the heat.  I'm an SDF."

SDF.  Sans domicile fixe.  Homeless. 

"The doors are locked but I can still see people working in the offices up there."   She pointed toward the second-floor windows.

I said that I didn't know how to contact them, but that there was someone in the library who would have a phone number.

She continued ranting.  My daughter hovered near me.  The woman talked about sleeping outside for a month and a half.  About walking all over Brittany.  About freezing her ass off.  About walking 30 kilometers last night so that she wouldn't freeze to death.  About having paid taxes in this country, and now she happens to be down on her luck, but that no help is forthcoming.

"They're assassinating the people!"

I just listened.  Walked with her to the library, and showed her where to find someone.

As we parted, she said "Excuse me.  I'm just fed up." 

"That's okay," I said.  "Best of luck to you."

The children and I walked away. C., who's nine, said "What was she talking about?"

I explained that she had nowhere to live, that she had been sleeping outside.

"Outside?!"  my son exclaimed. 

"Yes," I replied. 

He continued.  "But how can you sleep without a blanket?"

Good question.  How can you sleep without a blanket?

I don't know, and neither do my children.  And we are lucky.  I can't be fired.  I get paid every month, so I can pay my rent.  The other day I complained about not having one cent to my name.  But I have a father who's helping me, a steady job, food to eat, and for that I am thankful. 

Later I was thinking about that woman, thinking I should have offered to help her.  At the time, the thought didn't cross my mind.   I could have given her the four euros I had in my wallet.  I could have offered her a place to stay for a night.  All I did was lend an ear.  I hope it helped her.

As I was writing this, I got a phone call from my friend Dan.  He's American, and he and his wife Laure wanted to invite us for Thanksgiving.  More on that later.

Bad Art Blogging

This evening I went to a vernissage at a local art gallery.  "Local" is the key word here, because this is a really small town.  But hey, there's not much to do, the wine was free, and my friends and I had devised a code to discuss the art ("gherkin" for bad, "cornichon" for good).  We were set.   And did I mention the free wine? 

I took my HP Photosmart 720, turned off the flash, and snapped a bunch of hipshots.  In the spirit of spontaneity because I'm too fucking lazy, these photos are unadulterated. 

The Kindness Of Strangers And Other Commentary

A few days ago, I mentioned interviewing a woman to come and take care of my children on the mornings that I start class at 8:00.  The thing that triggered my little nervous breakdown a couple of months ago was a traumatic waking-up experience.  We were all yelling and crying by the time we left the apartment.  I dropped the kids off at day care.  It was 7:40, and I was more than five minutes late for work and feeling sick to my stomach.  I couldn't teach.  I explained to the kids that I felt ill, and that they were to do exercises in their book.  After two hours of class like this, I was granted permission to go home.  Three days later, I was waking my children up again, because I'd planned to go back to work that day.  C. started crying, "Mommy, I'm so tired!  I don't want to wake up!"  That did it. 

And Now For Something Completely Different

So I live in this small town now.  It's a medieval town, and all around you can see traces of the past.  Not 100 yards from my front door sits a castle keep that was built in the 12th century, according to the town's website. 

This afternoon I went up to the top of the keep with my kids and their dad.  It was a way to get out of my apartment, let the kids get some air, and continue discussing things with my ex.  I took my camera.  Here are some photos, which are probably the most constructive thing I got out of the afternoon.  Besides getting my precious children back. 

Welcome To Smallville

So I'm finally painting that cheap wooden shelf that I "recuperated," as the French would say. 

And I ran out of paint.  I'd only bought a little tiny can, because I wasn't sure of the color.  But I like this color, framboise, and it's just a cheap wooden shelf, cheaper than IKEA, so it's not like I'm going to fuck up some really nice furniture with my raspberry paint. 

Running out of paint = going to Bricomarché. 

Bricomarché = next to Intermarché

Intermarché = grocery store for a small town

Show Business Is A Hideous Bitch Goddess

So proclaimed the back of the acrylic knit sweater that the boy in line ahead of me at the grocery store was wearing.

Phew!  That was an awkward sentence.  Let me start over.

This afternoon, while in line at the local Intermarché, I noticed the sweater that a boy in front of me was wearing.  It was made of cheap black acrylic.  On the back was the saying I chose for the title of my post, and on the front was an image of Bart Simpson. 

Never mind the fact that the kid should have been in school.  I can only assume he was home sick, because he had a runny nose and was with his mother and his baby sister.  He grabbed a copy of the French equivalent of TV Guide to add to the cart. 

I stood there and thought about cheap acrylic.  And French small-town grocery stores.  And if Bart Simpson would really say something like "hideous bitch goddess."

Intermarché closes between 12:30 and 15:00 every day except Saturday.  I got there at about 15:30 -- enough time to shop before picking the kids up from school.  Yeah.  There are ten lanes at my Intermarché, and when I was done filling my cart, I got in the queue at one of the 2 (two!) lanes open. 

One aging lady a couple of carts ahead of me had had a problem with her Mir dishwashing liquid.  It was all over the goddamn place.  A store employee came and cleaned it up. 

There were still only two lanes open, and at least five people waiting in each lane.  The Mir cleaner-upper said "I'm going to wash my hands.  I'll be right back."  When she returned, she mercifully opened another lane.  I stayed where I was, because by that time The Cheap Acrylic Family was unloading their groceries onto the belt, and they only had a few items. 

I listened to the boy, who must have been at least 10 or 11, tell his mother what was on the week's TV schedule.  "Ze Sheening," he said.  "Ce n'est pas bon pour moi."   His mother shook her head.  He added "Why?  Is it about someone who walks around with a chainsaw?"  And then extrapolated about movies with chainsaw-wielding characters. 

I just smiled.  And thought about how I mentioned Jack Torrance in a recent entry here.  And wanted to say "Kid, watch out, Ze Sheening is about a guy who moves to Colorado and goes nuts that winter because someone eats his lima beans, and isn't show business just a hideous bitch goddess?"   

Instead I just quietly paid for my groceries and got back home just in time to pick up the kids.