The. Party. Shoes.

My lovely golden wedge shoe from the cute little shoe shop I have mentioned so many times you must think they are giving me a discount. Oh, I wish! Very dangerous party shoes, as they always get me in a good mood, they look cool, AND you are able to walk properly in them - in spite of being slightly intoxicated. At least you THINK you walk like a model on the catwalk, while IN REALITY, you walk like a COW. In heels.

I guess I should not really go into detail about last night. We were having a really quiet night in, when some of Mr. Incredible's old team mates from his handball team (we are talking some time just after the war here) suddenly called to tell us they were having a small gathering. In Oslo. And that they had champagne.

Blimey.
I never learn.
My hair hurts.
I am never going to touch that stuff again.

It was fun though. I think.
Anyway, I blame it all on the shoes. Totally.

Doing nothing

My new trainers, purchased during our trip to NY in May. Permanent residents of La Republique Francaise, as of now. I decided that I need to have a pair of trainers available, in case I suddenly feel like exercising. Would be a disaster if that suddenly happened, and I just was not able to because I did not have the proper shoes at hand. Or, "at foot" would perhaps be a better expression under these circumstances.

Sunday. After working to get things in place for two long days we decided to have a day off. And do NOTHING.

"Nothing" has so far involved:

Riding our brand new bicycles down to the village centre. This took us three minutes. We then had double espressos. Watching the locals leaving the church where they had attended the sunday service. I went to the local "boulangerie" and bought some forbidden carbs, riding my bike home with a baguette sticking out of the basket on the front of my bike. VERY French, right?

After breakfast, we crashed on our sun beds. Baking for a couple of hours, only interrupted by very short swims in the pool (cold!), small plates of Pata Negra, ice cream and a little dash of Sancerre in between.

My very Nordic skin soon had enough, so now I have been lounging on the sofa with my iPad for hours. Hm. Time to eat something again soon. If I can just gather the strength to get up and walk over to the fridge. Hm. Nope.

Saturday (k)night

My brand new Swedish wooden clogs. Intended as gardening shoes, but they need some serious breaking in before that is even remotely possible. They look cool, though. Very much in line with the bohemian / seventies look I will be tuning into this summer.

Mr. Incredible turns out to be even more incredible than I thought. He has hidden talents. I might have made fun of him in the past for not being very "handy", but now I will soon have to eat my own words. Yesterday, he fixed the upstairs toilet that did not flush. In other words, I have an in-house "plombier"! Awesome!

And, he has talents as a knight as well. Saving damsels in distress. If you consider being scared shitless to be "in distress". Might be a bit of an understatement. Or me to be a "damsel" for that matter.

Nevertheless, tonight we had a bit of an incident after dinner. I must first point out that I am not a blood-thirsty killer of any sort, but after being bitten by SIXTY mosquitoes last weekend, I decided I needed to put some restraints on the local insect welcoming comittee. I am not by any means meant to be their evening buffet. So. I bought this big mosquito-killer-lamp. With a radius covering 300 meters, no less. A very wise purchase, as the number of mosquito bites for yours truly has dropped by 97% from last weekend.

Anyway, we were lounging on our new outdoor sofa after dinner. When a huge bug appears. We are talking a MONSTER bug. It starts dancing around the lamp like it was a shrine of some sort. And, of course, the inevitable happens. It gets fried. We heard the regular "pop". And the thing falls to the floor. As Mr. I is very aware of my "issues" with most insects, especially when they hit a certain size, he instantly volunteered to remove the corpse. Meaning, he scraped it up with a piece of plastic, and threw it over the hedge. To the neighbor's garden.

Just for the record, he chose the neighbor with the hugest garden, the one with an Olympic standard swimming pool and a separate field for playing boule. And not the other guy with a garden equalling four tomato plants and two heads of lettuce.

So far, so good. Only, about ONE HOUR LATER, the creature suddenly comes back to life! It is rumbling (yes!) around inside the hedge, and suddenly it flies back onto our terrace, ending up on its back like some real-life version of Gregor Samsa*, crawling around on his back, not able to get on his feet. I instantly hid under my blanket.

Mr. I saw that he had to take immediate action. Cheering from under my blanket, I encouraged Mr. I to go for it, but NOT to use a shoe (getting bug-goo on shoes is a no-no**). Covering the monster in plastic, and then REPEATEDLY stepping on it seemed to do the trick. When Mr. I was finally 100% sure the thing had checked in at "Bug Heaven", over the hedge it went. Again.

And nobody has heard from him since.


* The guy turning into a huge roach in "The metamorphosis" by Franz Kafka. A book I wish I had never read. But I have. In German, even.


** I killed a huge flying ant in the upstairs bathroom last weekend. But as I did not want to get ant-goo on my flip-flop, I went downstairs to "borrow" Mr. I's flip-flop for the purpose. Worked wonders. Until, of course, I told him afterwards. Stupid.

Catch 22

A small step for mankind, perhaps, but a huge step for me. Today was a real milestone. Yes. I have now, finally, managed to open a French bank account. This might not seem like such a big deal. But it is, I can assure you.

In France, you cannot do anything without a bank account. No car. No electricity. No water. No phone.

Guess what sort of documentation you need to open the bank account, then! Yes, a copy of your electricity bill. The one you cannot get without the bank account, or the RIB, as they call it.

So, armed with copies of my electricity, cable and phone bills from Oslo, combined with my tax return and a paper from the French notaire stating that we have a property in France, we were able to open a special bank account for foreigners. Which can in turn be changed to a normal French account as soon as I can show them my first electricity bill.

It's not supposed to be easy, I guess.


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The City Gnomes

"Before" (Oslo) and "After" (Somewhere-in-France)

This sure is one lucky garden gnome. He is a gift from my dear sister, who acquired a taste for these weird creatures while studying/working in Belgium and The Netherlands some years back. After "living" on our balcony in Oslo for years, he has now gone to a better place. He will be the only permanent resident of our summer house. A treat he has truly deserved after guarding our balcony for years. You could perhaps say that he has been more of a city gnome. A bit like Mr. Incredible.

The last few years I have even forgotten to take the little gnome inside during the winter, the poor little fellow. I consider him moving to France to be his retirement. But really, this will be the first time this GARDEN gnome is in a real garden. So, I guess this will sort of be the start of his career, rather than the end. As he will most probably be gnoming about in the garden for many years to come. Whatever that is.

I took his picture under the olive tree yesterday, and one by the pool. Somehow, he looks oddly happy. He has a bit of the same silly grin on his face as Mr. I has when we are here. That surely makes me one happy gal, too.

Le Viking

One of the pairs of sandals that I had made to measure in Sorrento last summer. Among the first pairs of shoes to move permanently to my French "offshore" shoe department. Perfect for long lazy days in the sun where the longest walk you do is to the kitchen to fetch another can of Orangina. Perhaps accompanied by some ham or olives to stuff your face with.

Time for our last weekend in France before the REAL summer vacation starts. It might sound very glamorous to be "commuting" between Nice and Oslo on weekends, but I can assure you, it is not. Yes, we have some great evenings, with lovely food and wine / gazing at sunsets, but mostly these weekends tend take the form of a labour camp. And - on this particular weekend I sacrificed TWO parties. Since you know that I hate missing out on anything, missing the summer party at work - AND my 20 year graduation anniversary (yikes, I am old!) is a lot.

We are running around like headless chicken all day, working on getting everything ready for the summer. Good news are that we are getting there. Most of the outdoor furniture is now in place, and - we have managed to assemble the huge Weber barbecue without the word "divorce" coming up. A great success, I would say (sometimes I just have low expectations).

If we could only get the boiler in the basement to start producing hot water for our showers, all would be good. I am starting to get tired of being a good sport showering (and washing hair) in ice-cold water every morning coming up with the same stupid jokes about being a bit of "a Norwegian viking". Because, I really do prefer hot water. Just call me a chicken, but I do.

Dinner with Miss Universe

My ultra-flat sandals from Francesco Moreschi. Purchased at "Lille Vinkel" in Oslo. The cute little shop my old schoolmate once referred to as something like "that place where you stumble down the stairs, tearing down a couple of pairs of Hunter wellies on your way down, before you end up in shoe heaven". So very true. Unfortunately, these far too expensive sandals have not been used as much as they should, because the heel strap is too loose, so they keep falling of my feet. Not so much today as I seem to still have "flight feet" after Sunday's return from "Notre Petite Maison". And, they were a perfect match with my very bohemian maxi dress picked up in St. Barth's during Christmas.

Time for a long overdue dinner with the lovely "Princess K" last night. At Nodee. An excellent place for both lunch and dinner, if it was not for their extremely tight table reservations. Paired down with their slow service, this is NOT a good combination. On far too many occasions, we have had to limit the number of courses ordered (not good) and the bottles of wine enjoyed (perhaps not as bad) as we ran out of time. I have many times joked about whether I should try to once book a table from - let's say - three minutes to six until eight minutes past eight. This would be the place to do it. In a way they are Oslo's answer to Jerry Seinfeld's "soup nazi", only in terms of Asian food. "No crispy duck for you!"

If it was not for the excellent food, I would NEVER tolerate being treated this way at any restaurant, but I am addicted to their black cod. And the duck. So I keep coming back for more. What I seem to forget is that sometimes the service can fall to even lower levels than normal, as the staff likes to cater for celebrities of all categories. If you happen to be present when one of the real A-listers in Oslo turn up, you need to be patient. As the service level for us mere mortals will then plummet to levels you did not think possible at such a top-rated establishment.

Unbelievably enough, the service today was tolerable. In spite of having the incredibly beautiful former Miss Universe (definitively an A-lister) seated a few tables away from us. And, just a few tables away from her again - some "over-the-top" finance guy that could once have been considered to be some kind of celebrity. A typical C acting like an A.

Still, we actually got our dessert before it was time for us to leave. Yay. I wonder how it would be to go this place and FOR ONCE not be on a dead-line.

L'Eau de vie

Water. You really cannot do without it. Still, there is GOOD water. And there is BAD water. An obvious example of bad water being - rain. However annoying, rain is actually important for plants and flowers to grow. But there is another form of bad water that you CAN very well do without. This is the concept of "water all over the basement floor of your new house". Exactly.

Walking downstairs on Friday morning, I noticed this funny splashing sound as I came down the stairs. Hm. Not good. Then I saw the water come flushing out of two holes in the wall. Straight next to the fuse box! Not a very good combination. Shit. Shit. Shit.

So, we started testing where the water could come from. Running the tap did not result in much, but showering and the flushing of toilets, on any floor of the house, caused cascades of water to hit the basement floor.

Later, the painters arrived to look at the house, and they instantly became "plombiers" (with Euro-signs in their eyes, I'll tell you), and offered to break down the whole wall in the toilet room on the first floor to see where the water was coming from. As if we did not know. Duh. Flushing toilet = water in basement. Not a very difficult equation? (You need a hint?) Of course, the water came from the toilet.

The gardener arrived, and there was much cursing. But he could not figure it out either. After everybody left, we decided to go down to the basement to try wipe up the remaining water before we started searching for a hotel. As staying in a house with water is flushing into the electricity mains is not so high on my list.

That was then we realized that there was a separate fuse for something referred to as "poumpe". Hm. We could recall the previous owner briefly mentioning that the "poumpe" should always be off when people were not using the house. For some reason, it was now it was still in the "OFF" position. We put the fuses back in, and - just for the hell of it - went to flush a toilet. Guess what! NO WATER. Yay.

So, we had cracked the code that four locals had not been able to, with two of them being "plombiers" (yeah, right!), and one being the gardener who had worked with this house for 20 years. Promising.

As we now could turn the water supply back on, AND there was no need to find a hotel anyway, we completed filling the swimming pool with water. A task that had been going on for THREE DAYS. Yup. I do not really know how many liters of water has been involved, but it will surely show up on our next water bill.

Somehow I much prefer water in the pool to water in the basement, though. Any time. Pool water is typical good water. Well, at least as long as it stays in the pool. I hope I will not have to come back to you on that again at some later stage, but so far we have not seen any leaks in that department. Wheew.

Forget-me-not

My first pair of Havaïanas. Purchased at the excellent travel accessory shop Nomaden in Oslo. Which, for years, was the only place (that I knew of, at least) where I could get these extremely versatile flip-flops. These sandals have been chosen as the first pair of shoes to move to France. Permanently. I do not have a shoe closet there. But I do not think I will have one either, as the humidity makes shelves a better solution. It will all be ruined without proper ventilation.

I really don't understand what is happening here. Because I have been known to be SO much in control it could sometimes be seen as a bit compulsive. I NEVER forget stuff, and especially not vital things like keys, phones and wallets. But this month I have managed an oval weekend in NY without my wallet, and now I am facing a weekend without my mobile phone. It hit me while getting my stuff ready for the security screening at the airport yesterday morning. No. No! NO! My phone was at home. On our kitchen counter. My umbilical cord - linking me to the rest of the world - is cut off. Temporarily, but still. Ouch. I can even recall looking at the phone on the kitchen counter and thinking "must not forget that one", while having breakfast. Great.

Of course, I could perhaps benefit from being "offline" for a few days. But NOT this particular weekend. We have no less than THREE huge furniture deliveries arriving today. And the new painter. We are, by the way on our third painter already, as the first one got another / bigger and more profitable job in Cap Ferrat, and the one we met on Monday decided he wanted to go on vacation and could not finish according to my deadlines. Seriously, I would have been able to paint those walls myself in a week. If I could be bothered to do it myself, I mean. And I gave the guy a whole MONTH!

Ok. So Mr. Incredible got a bit upset about the left-behind phone. And snapped at me. I snapped back. As I hate-hate-hate having it pointed out to me on the rare occasions (right!) that I have done something stupid. Because - I am already perfectly aware of that fact. There is no need to rub things in, is there?

Then, this elderly woman, someone I would normally have found truly adoring (pink Chanel tweed jacket, pearl stud earrings), exclaimed - with true despair in her voice: "Are you already starting to fight this early on on your trip?" I gave her my worst look, and a very brisk "YES." Before marching away. I did not really feel like explaining the situation to her. I felt more like hiding in the restroom crying. Which I didn't. I am a grown-up. But it is ok to want to do that even for an adult. Me thinks.

Well, I am not one to focus on problems, really. So, I soon had TWO contingency plans in place. My sister picked up the phone at our place so she could answer any incoming calls until I was finally able to get my mobile service provider to put an automatic forward on my calls to one of Mr. Incredible's THREE (!) mobile phones. Worked like a dream, when I could just manage to GET THROUGH to their "customer service".

Calling from abroad I do not appreciate being held up for minutes regarding some customer service survey. And then being informed that "the waiting time is estimated to...... TWENTY-SEVEN MINUTES". Seriously!

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Dominoes

My butterfly bling sandals. Seven years old (yes, purchased for honeymoon), and are starting to become a bit worn down. But I love the cute little butterfly, AND the memories attached. So they can stay for a while longer.

Today it happened again. As we got on the plane, two "in-duh-vi-duh-als" had - very conveniently (for them) decided to take our seats. The seats I went online to secure for us 22 hours ago. I always select the second emergency exit row, as the chairs in the first one do not recline. We have learned that the hard way.

Of course, we were asked if we did mind swapping with the actual seats of the morons. Eh, how about - "NO WAY"?

This resulted in a lot of shuffling of people. And hand luggage. And - of course - everyone looks at ME as the DIFFICULT person. Cannot be a bit flexible here, can we? Actually, no. I can't. I refuse to sit somewhere else because some amoeba is not able to see the difference on their boarding pass between 15A/B and 16A/B.

So everyone is seated again, and the boarding continues. Then a new person shows up. With a ticket to 15C. Which is now where the guy that took my seat is seated. Guess what?! THAT was not his actual seat either! I mean SERIOUSLY! What is wrong with some people? It it really that hard to get these things right?

The story continues. As it turns out that a female of the very same "wherever-I-put-my-a**-that's-my-seat"* species is - oh, help me (!) - occupying the guy's actual seat. We are talking the airplane seating version of the domino effect.

Again, offers of swapping for a less optimal seat was suggested. But, no, the girl with a ticket to seat 15C insisted on her aisle seat. Yay! That's my kinda girl ! Good for her! Of course, she was given "the look" by the imbecile and his wife, who again had to swap their seats. More shuffling. Of people. And luggage.

And the super-moron who had managed to mistake her actual 15F seat for 15A now had to move across the whole row. I do not know whether I think this is impressive, or just plain scary. I just hope I do not ever meet these people when (if?) they are driving. Left, right, who knows - or CARES? A, F, 15, 16 - IS there a difference? Actually, I do not think these people are considered fit to be operating any kind of motorized vehicle. So there should be nothing to worry about, really, unless they are driving without a license, that is. Woooo.

This sure is an eventful flight. I just had an encounter with the most polite airline steward in history. Was not expecting that from an employee with Scandinavian. Hm. The more I think about it, the more sure I am that he was actually being sarcastic. You see, he was asked to bring some milk and sugar for someone's coffee. Then suddenly, we see the guy running to the front of the plane. And coming back with the weird combination of an oxygen flask - and a CIABATTA. Yes!

At the back of the plane a stewardess is working to unpack a defibrillator, and there is a lot of commotion. Then, suddenly, the steward is back. Offers the cream and sugar. And - get this - he APOLOGIZES for the delay. What?!

Things have settled down now in the back here now, so I hope the guy they were attending to is alright.

I am not sure if I should tell you this, but the first thought that ran through my mind as I saw the defibrillator was: "Oh no, please do not make it necessary for us to make an emergency landing somewhere now. I do not have the time." As the thought hit me, I realized that I am now at a stress level that is not good for me. Or my surroundings, for that matter.

* Stolen and modified for own use based on the song lyrics by Paul Young, "Wherever I lay my hat, that's my home". Where did HE go, by the way?

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