Wine tasting - by the bucket

Red strappy sandals from Högl. A brand for old ladies focusing on comfortable shoes. I will be there in a couple of years anyway, so I figured I might just as well get used to it. Souvenirs from that shoe-purchasing-bonanza in Kiel.

My dad got MIA* at our local hypermarket in Grasse on Thursday. I found him frozen on the spot in front of a shelf full of ordinary** sparkling French wines. Looked a bit like a hunting dog that has found its prey and is waiting for the hunter to come pick it up. I do not think he was drooling, though. Or maybe he was.

The "prey" was a whole shelf of sparkling French wines in the price range of 99 euro-cents to 2 euros. One of them allegedly cost 15 euros at the government owned (crikey!) wine store in Norway. Living under such harsh conditions up in the cold north with only over-priced wine and booze to comfort us through the long and dark winter evenings has of course made some serious damage to our souls. We just cannot resist cheap alcohol when we see it. There. I said it.

Friday night we decided to give our wine bargains a try. I mean, how bad could it be, even at less than one euro? What would we really prefer? Twentyfive bottles of this crappy bubbly, or - one delicious bottle of the staple every day champagne from Möet et Chandon?

Actually, I would say it is hard to come to a true conclusion here, as nobody I know would really be able to test the twentyfive bottles and live to tell the story. But, if the effect of the four bottles we tried between us is anything to go by, my hunch is that I would rather go with the one bottle of real champagne over the two cases of the cheap stuff. I just think it will be better for your health. At least judging by how I felt the morning after this rather small sample.

Poor Monsieur Incroyable. Returning to France today to find his Madame in such a state. Can somebody get me a bucket, please?!

* Missing In Action.
** Not from the Champagne district.

Being French

My yellow "Replay" souvenir sandals from Croatia! Purchased in the town of Pula. I am not good with names, neither with people or places (I am a bit like Dory in the movie "Finding Nemo"). But the name of this Croatian town sticks like glue, as the name is written and pronounced the same way as the Norwegian work for f***ed. I guess this says a thing or two about my unintentionally selective memory.

These yellow shoes are a typical "holiday romance". You totally fall for them after walking around in the sun for three weeks in a brightly colored sun dress (messes up your brain big time). You even fall so hard that you go ahead and buy TWO PAIRS, because you simply cannot decide on red or yellow. Then you come back home, and your yellow patent leather platform sandals (hellooooo!) just do not work in "real life". At least not for me, as pole dancing is not part of my job description (I think). Still, it makes me happy to look at those yellow shoes sitting there at the bottom of my closet.

I love France. I really do. Perhaps to the extent that - in theory - I could live there permanently. Still, it is quite a strange country. In some areas they are way ahead of other countries - especially when it comes to gastronomy and fashion. But then they have other things that are just plain backwards. France is for instance one of those countries with a banking system still relying heavily on check books. Then there is the traffic. People are so much in a hurry. For being such a "sophisticated" or "civilized" country, people are pretty rude! Also, parking is allowed anywhere, just as long as you turn on the hazard warning lights on your car. Works every time. When it comes to gender politics, France is also a country where women are still women, and men are men. Or rather - cheating bastards, as you also may also refer to it. You see, having a mistress - or - as they call it - "a second wife" is perfectly normal. Even the presidents do it, so then it must be ok….

Come to think of it, I do not think I will ever really blend in in France, if that is even an objective. Being blonde (chemically at least), rather "big boned", and not being a smoker, I do not have much going for me. That last point is "tres important". All French women do smoke. That is in fact the way they avoid getting anywhere near being defined as "big boned", even in spite of their serious croissant-and-latte habits. Another problem is that I tend to smile a lot. Perhaps even more so when I am actually in France. In France, smiling is for children and tourists (people who does not know how to act cool). So, even though I sometimes take up the morning habit of carrying baguettes forced up my sweaty armpits, my silly grin while doing so will always give me away. Merde….

Mozart et la

My white Havaianas. Purchased in Brazil. Not my favorite pair of flip-flops, as these are apparently not meant for Norwegians with broad feet and an abnormally high instep. Note to self: Always try on shoes before you buy. Now these shoes live in exile in France.

Which brings me to this: We have this great pizza take-away place down the road from our little French chateau. This is where we go to pick up our "diner" if we:

A) Run out of propane for the barbecue
B) Have forgotten to buy groceries
C) Just cannot be bothered to cook, a.k.a. throw the remains of some dead animal on the barbecue

This pizza-joint is just starting up (I think), so they have these "generic" pizza boxes. Which makes me wonder: What on earth is George Clooney doing on a PIZZA BOX IN FRANCE? Is this his "dark past"? We know that all great actors/actresses always needed to take some shitty job before their careers took off. Serving coffee/flipping burgers, or - if really desperate - doing porn movies. But - "pizza boy"? That's a new one!

http://mozart.ipizzaphone.mobi

Mister Cleverpants

My lovely, but impossibly high-heeled Marc Jacobs sandals. They make me tall, but as they are incompatible with champagne, they mostly stay in my closet. Sad.

Back home in Oslo, I have this neighbor. Everything he does ends up a success. I just can not decide whether I should just let go and allow myself to be utterly impressed by this guy, or whether I should just feel annoyed (this is by the way THE Norwegian way of handling other people's success, and it is deeply embedded in us all).

Listen to this: He has played football on a fairly high level, he has a great education (happened to study at the same school as I…), and he landed a great job at a huge bank. Then, his band project during his student years turned into one of Norway's best-selling bands. Just to try it out, he starts writing crime novels about this thirsty policeman called Harry Hole. And, guess what? A huge success. Children's books? Oh yes, that too. In addition to this, he does not look too bad either (huge understatement). Argh!

This summer, I have given in. As I think I was the only grown-up person In Norway who had not read any of his books. Now I have read them all in the course of close to six weeks. And I just have to give it to this guy. He is good. He is really good. I just wish I could come up with something as brilliant. Perhaps I should write my own crime novel? About an old apartment building in Oslo, where people start to disappear after entering the huuuuuge daaaaark basement. The first one to go, in a very violent way, would be our next-door neighbor, Mr. Grumpyface! (Ok, I can sort of understand why he hates us so much. There has been a few loud parties over the years.) Then we will all disappear, one by one. And then they catch the killer, and - "ta-daaaah" - it is the famous novelist living up in the attic. Seems he is testing out his ideas for the next book in real life….

I think this book could most probably make me a millionaire, and then he would surely sue me for all I am worth (and then some). I better not risk that.

I do, however, have another great idea. As I have had far too much time on my hands this summer, I have had the chance to dive into some French literature, too. Or rather, a French crime series, written by an Englishman. The main character, Inspector Bruno, is a bit different from the Norwegian policeman Harry Hole. The French hero is a nature lover and a hunter, goes for walks in the fields with his dog, is friends with everybody in the village, and he cooks the most incredible food. Of course, he also drinks on duty, but just a little Sauternes. Even though the books about Bruno are crime novels, they are "feelgood" crime novels in a way. And although I also love to read about the deeply depressing world of Harry Hole, my dream crime novel would be the one where Harry Hole has to go to France to help his colleague Bruno solve a case. Harry could definitely use a touch of Bruno's "joie de vivre". Me and my brilliant ideas!

http://www.brunochiefofpolice.com

Chapon for one

My Mexx sandals. Purchased in Kiel, that Easter I have mentioned so many times. Referred to as "The-Easter-when-we-could-not-go-skiing" (boo! hoo!), as Mr. Incredible had a "sort-of-self-inflicted-issue-related-to-his-ankle". So instead we took the ferry to Germany. Awesome shoe shopping, anyway. Surely, nobody can argue against souvenir shoes, right?

Saturday night we had reservations at my favorite seafood restaurant in Cannes. Oh la la! I just cannot eat fish that looks like…fish,  so I just always just order my very safe battered ("meuniere") dover sole (no head, no skin, no fins). The lovely Miss J. is more of the adventurous kind. AND her father grew up in the northern part of Norway, so she is used to seeing - and trained from early age to EAT even the "violent" parts of fish. (You would not believe it, I mean, she looks SO innocent with her blonde hair and all!)

Her selection for the day was a "chapon". A real ugly S.O.B. The problem was just that these ugly creatures are to share, as they are kind of HUGE. So, after some "oh-la-la"-ing and "mon dieus" all about, our waiter managed to locate a one-portion-sized "chapon" somewhere up the street. (I do not want to know where he got it from, most probably there was this guy standing on a street corner in a grey trench coat, selling fish out of his inner pockets).

The proud waiter tip-toed over to the table after showing the freshly grilles sea monster to Miss J. "Coupe, Madame?" He started giggling when the lovely mademoiselle did not want him to cut the fish to remove all fish-resembling parts. There were no more giggles when he came back to clear our plates a while later…

http://www.chezastoux.com

Dick

The more sensible sibling to my Alex wedges, the Alexlo from Stuart Weitzman. Part of same shipment from the US via my mail forwarding service in Jersey. (Every shopper with a black belt should have one. And, guess what? I found out about this service from a GUY at work. Beat that. So shopping is not just a girly thing.) Easier to walk in, but not by far as glam as the taller version. More of a Monday or Tuesday shoe.

As you might have noticed, we are not entirely happy with our gardener/pool boy, a.k.a. Quasimodo. One thing is that he does not really meet my standards of what a French pool boy should look like, but I could live with that if he at least was a good pool boy. Or gardener. Or ANYTHING other than a real sleaze bag, really.

Last Friday he managed to mess up things properly in the pool utility room. As he wanted to prove to me that the plumber I had hired had not fixed the leak, he had to start poking his nose in things far beyond his competence level. You see, he does not like the fact that we can fix things on our own, or with the help of people he has not "approved". So, he stated that there was still a leak in the pool room, as the pipes were a bit damp (which as far as I could see was just condensation, but what do I know...). The story peaked with him unscrewing the main valve to the pool. Clever. As the water pressure was quite high, he managed to SOAK himself as well as the entire room, and he had a real struggle getting the valve closed again. And when he did, guess what? Now we had the MOTHER OF ALL LEAKS. Awesome. Mr. Incredible arrived, and instantly hit the roof. Clearly telling the pool boy what he thought of his work, in a phrase I will just refer to in Norwegian ("Din jæææævla kuk!)" and not translate, in case someone under age is reading this. The guy got the message. He said he would be back to fix the mess Monday, and left.

With the help of our housekeeper's husband, we managed to close the leak the same evening. It turned out that Quasimodo had put the lid of the valve back on without the little rubber ring that firmly closes it (sorry, this is where my English vocabulary ends).

Still, we waited for Quasimodo to turn up again on Monday.
And Tuesday.
And Wednesday.
And Thursday.
And Friday.
No sign of him.

Yesterday I decided to call him. He did not answer, so I left a message telling him we were expecting him. In the afternoon, I heard a car in the backyard. And with him being the only other person with a key to the gate, I knew it must be him. So I quickly asked my friend Miss J, who was visiting from London, and is - very conveniently - fluent in French, to be my back up in case I was not able to make myself understood.

When asked where he had been all week, the moron managed to put on silly grin and stated that he had been ON VACATION. That did it. I just asked for his keys back, and told him he was done.

His muttering of "no problem, no problem, no problem" all the way back to his car, and the way he rocketed off our premises in his little pick-up truck told me otherwise. But it felt really good. From now on I can even take a dip in my very own pool without being afraid of the pig suddenly appearing from behind a bush. Or, as our real-estate agent should later put it so eloquently. "I am so sorry. I did not know, but that guy is AN ANIMAL."

The moral of the story is, if you find someone to work for you that quotes you a fixed price that is too good to be true, it normally is. You should always expect to get exactly what you are paying for.


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A long way from home

Yesterday was such a shock. I really don't have words for it. My husband called me from his office just after the bomb had gone off in Oslo. It was just surreal.

Then the news of the shootings reached us later in the evening. Even more surreal. On one side I wish I was at home with my husband, on the other side I was relieved to be safe in my little sheltered cocoon in France with my good friend and my parents. No TV, no internet, and the news on the radio I could not make a lot out of since it was all in French. Just one of the French newspapers showed photos of wounded people on the front page, the others had nothing.

I do not think Norway will ever be the same again.

The stamp of approval

This week we received "The Letter". The letter from the Norwegian adoption authorities allowing us to apply for adoption from China. It is a huge relief to finally have this, but still it is just one small step towards hopefully being parents one day.

Now we need to start gathering paperwork for the big application to Chinese adoption authorities. That is going to be a walk in the park compared to the next part of the process, though. The waiting. The estimated waiting time is now five years. Five years! I will be an old mum, but I will definitely be a very happy one.

Lost in translation

My Timberland wooden wedge sandals. Purchased in Barcelona years ago, on a shopping trip that turned into more of a sightseeing trip after my friend and I managed to select the one weekend when most shops were closed due to public holidays. As you can see, I still managed to buy some shoes.

Waiting for the plumber seems to be my main occupation these days. One day it is the pool, another day it is the toilet leaking. And waiting for someone you do not really know WHEN will turn up, in your house that seems to be the ONLY house on this planet without a DOORBELL, can be quite frustrating. As you cannot really relax in the garden, in case you do not hear the guy coming. The whole process involves a lot of running up and down stairs, opening and shutting doors, and gazing out windows.

Every fifteen minutes or so, I would go outside to the parking lot next to our main entrance to look for the guy. Then, out of the blue, a total stranger appears at the top of our staircase. He has a bit of a desperate look to his face, and he has a serious case of sunburn - his nose peeling. He approaches me and exclaims:

"Je suis perdue!"

Hm. Perdue. Perdue? Perdue. Hm. I know we had that in French class. My first thought is that the is SORRY. He sure LOOKS sorry at least. Hm. No. That cannot be it.

Then it hits me. Of course. Overjoyed that I am actually able to understand what this native Frenchman is saying to me, I exclaim - in English:

"Oh, you are - LOST!"

Like that was the greatest news I had ever heard. The guy looked truly puzzled. No wonder. Here he is - lost in this labyrinth of a small village, the sun is burning, and this crazy person is actually HAPPY to hear about his great distress?

I somehow managed to pull myself together and give the man directions for his way back go the main (well, there really is just one, but still, the village is large enough for people to get lost anyway) square in our village.

I definitely need to install a doorbell sometime soon. I cannot imagine how the previous owner of our house survived without that for twenty years. I guess Mr. Duct Tape did not have that many friends coming over to visit. Or handymen, I guess. You don't need that when you have enough of the extremely versatile duct tape....


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The soundtrack of my life

My Mexx sandals. I had no idea that they made shoes, but apparently, they do. Purchased that infamous Easter when we could not go skiing due to Mr. I's sudden aquavit-triggered osteoporosis, and instead ended up going to Kiel on a "cruise"- buying shoes in bulk.

Listening to French radio can be frustrating when you understand somewhere around 5% of what is going on. It makes me feel totally left out, like I am the only one in the whole wide world NOT getting the point, and I hate that. Not that I ever experience that a lot, ohno.

Anyway, the French are indeed very protective of their "oh-so-sacred-yet-totally-incomprehensible" language, so - all French radio stations face strict regulations on to which extent they are allowed to pollute the air with "international" music. With the result being that quite a few English-speaking musicians feel that they need to make special French versions of their songs to allow them to be played under the French quota. A phenomena that sometimes makes you want to hurt yourself. Badly. I have a theory that this is what might have REALLY happened to the late Mr. Van Gogh, actually.

Still, after a few weeks feeling like complete morons whenever we turned on the radio, we realized that there are in fact a few radio stations that elegantly surpass these rules, simply by broadcasting from somewhere outside of France. Smooth, right? One of these radio channels is the "Riviera Radio"*, which is very conveniently aired in English only. "From Monaco to St. Tropez - and all the way out to sea". Nothing less.

Apart from providing you with a mix of the current Riviera hits (the trashiest of Eurotrash) mixed with all the songs you used to love when you were young, but that are now for some unexplainable (or perhaps not?) reason long forgotten, you get to know the inside of the everyday life of a deeply suffering group of people, namely some disgustingly rich people populating the Cote d'Azur. (We are not talking about the ones that are just fairly well off here, absolutely not).

This means that you gain insight into everyday struggles like:

• "If it's not your work or your wife giving you a headache, it must be your YACHT. To get rid of this you need a proper YACHT MANAGER." (But, of course! Why didn't I think of that?!)
• And - "You are not able to find business class tickets for your upcoming vacation? Please call us, and we will take care of all your travel needs!" (Wow, thanks! And that will be, like, FREE OF CHARGE? Well, then my days of flying coach are ALL over...right.)

It surely is frightening to listen to these horror stories of how life on what the rest of us believe to be "The Sunny Side", actually is an ongoing battle. Fortunately I get in a much better mood as soon as they switch to something light and less serious, like this year's Riviera mega hit:

Oh, Friday night
Too much money in the bank account
Wave your hands while you scream and shout
Welcome to St. Tropez...


http://youtu.be/M1V4mlaF_UU


Ah. Does THAT make you feel better, or WHAT? At least when your brain finally manages to stop unconsciously repeating that song in, let's say, about three days from now.....

*http://www.rivieraradio.mc/home.asp

The Human ATM

My Alex espadrille wedge sandals from Stuart Weitzman. Most probably the only thing Jennifer Aniston and I will EVER have in common. Unfortunately for me, fortunately for her. I guess. I totally fell in love with these online just after Christmas. Then I waited TWO long months before I ordered them - as part of my new year's resolution not to buy more shoes. I just love them. They make me tall. And they make my very short legs look better in shorts. On the negative side, they are not shoes you could run a marathon in, but why would you? (As if I would ever do that in ANY shoes - and remind me of that when I turn 40, please).

Owning a house is very expensive. I am learning that the hard way. And, getting used to the monetary system of a new country is frightening. Very scary, indeed. A couple of weeks back, I received the very first sign that I am now OFFICIALLY an adult. I got my very first check-book. Yup. We stopped using that in Norway about 15 years ago. But the French still cling to this. So, armed with my check-book, and a bank account filled up with fresh oil-money from Norway I felt prepared for whatever might hit me.

What I didn't expect was that most people that come to work on your house do prefer CASH. And loads of cash. So I am now on first-name terms with the clerk at my local bank. Where I turn up every morning to get my cash. I simply feel naked without 2000 EUR in my secret drawer. As you never know when you might need money for a new toilet. Or an electrician.


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Falling down

My incredibly ethnic sandals from two years back. Purchased at the departments store Illums in Copenhagen on a little spring break with my dear sister-in-law and her husband. Just another example of shoes that I find truly BRILLIANT at the time of purchase, but then they turn out to be not quite so in real life. The strap between the toes hurts. Still, they look quite awesome accessorized with a black kaftan and a glass of champagne, on the deck of a yacht in the Med. Absolutely.

Today is our informal deadline to get the house in shape, as we have guests coming. Six of them. Including our nephew and niece! They live in South Korea at the moment, and our niece is actually BRAND NEW, we haven't even seen her since she was born in January, so you can imagine that we are very excited.

Still, this last week of French labour camp has taken it's toll on my mood. And, most certainly, the mood of the otherwise SO OPTIMISTIC Mr. Incredible. (For those who know him, you know that I am being VERY ironic just now). The very last thing on our "to-do-list" before hitting the showers to meet and greet everybody at the airport was.... drumwhirls.....

Putting up the baby travel cot in one of the guest rooms, presumably a very easy task. (If you are in fact a parent of a small child and familiar with these navy folding travel cots, I guess you are now already laughing on the inside. Because it is SO EASY.)

I know, it is just four clicks and the cot is up, BUT REALLY IT IS NOT AT ALL THAT EASY.

In fact, it did not work at all. No click. Just a pile of metal and stupid, sagging, navy fabric. 

So. We just lost it. Both of us. Simultaneously. Attacking the stubborn bed with all our force. Which at the time was fueled by a week of frustration with the general "stickiness" of France. The delayed furniture. Towels. Getting the right gas bottle for the barbecue. It all came out.

Did our joint forces help putting the cot together? Of course not. But, boy, it still felt pretty good getting that aggression out. At the time, at least. Afterwards, we felt kinda silly. Attacking a piece of furniture. How mature is that?

Well, now we have two baby travel cots. Fortunately they had another one over at our local Casino mall. So we have one nicely assembled one in the upstairs guest bedroom. (Very easily assembled, I took a deep breath - and it took just four clicks). And then there is the other one. The one in the garage in the basement. The one we are not talking about, the one we are hoping that our guest do not notice, at least not until enough time has passed for us to:

1) Be able to get rid of the evidence, so the topic will never be brought up

2) Time has made it possible for us to laugh at this as well. Although I think that might take us a while.

It's not just towels!

Sandals from our honeymoon seven years ago. The Mauritius leg of it, NOT the safari in Tanzania (in case you wondered). From mock-Italian brand Enzo Poli. Used to be a favorite, together with the same in black. Now in permanent exile in France, maybe hoping to get back in fashion again, who knows (as you might have realized by now, yours truly is not particularly good at throwing away things she does not really appreciate anymore).

Things are starting to come together at our house. Finally. I must admit that it has not exactly been a walk on the park, though. I suspect this might be a cultural issue, but if you want to survive in France without growing an ulcer, you will need a good portion of patience. Any deficits in the patience department can - fortunately - be balanced out with just the right amount of chilled rosé.

For instance when the internet guy that you set up a "rendez-vous" with more than a month ago does not turn up, and - of course - does not bother to call and inform you about it. And when the three (!) incredibly romantic canopy beds that you ordered online in March (!) for delivery on July 1st suddenly cannot be delivered because the truck is to big to be allowed to pass through the village. One would think that wouldn't really come as a surprise after close to three months. After all, I DID provide my address when I placed the order, didn't I? Fortunately, the truck disaster incident was swiftly solved when I (not enough rosé, I guess) called the carrier and CRIED, begging them to find a smaller truck. No French male can resist helping a damsel in distress.

Now, at last we are down to the smaller details. Who are not really any less frustrating, as - since I have really put my heart and soul (yes, I might have one of each) into furnishing this house in my "French-countryside-meets-Scandinavian-minimalism" way for months now, I refuse to let things slide now that we are so close to MY idea of MY perfect summer house. So, poor Mr. Incredible is dragged all over Cannes and it's vicinity looking for The Perfect Beach Towels to match our Perfect Sunbeds (acquired after several rounds of optimization).

I found them. And, as so many things I tend to like, most of them were designed by this clever American dude called Ralph. Which is another word for "expensive". When Mr. Incredible saw the price tag, he just marched out of the store and back to the car.

Back in the car, I decided to go "all-in". It is a ruthless thing to do, but sometimes a girl's got to do what a girl's got to do. I played the IKEA-card. Faced with the threat of having to drive to IKEA outside Toulon to buy more decently priced, but absolutely very acceptable towels, he jumped out of the car again. All of a sudden, we could buy ANY towels. Regardless of price.

I do not loose my temper very often, but that was when I drove off. Leaving a very sorry husband in the parking lot in the pouring rain, no money and no cell phone...

Of course, I returned and I picked him up, and we got the towels (surprise!). Although it would surely had made a much better story if I hadn't, I am totally aware of that.

Sigh. Why do men have to be so difficult! They know deep inside that we always get what we want in the end anyway, so why do they bother....?


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The runaway

My Roman gladiator sandals. Purchased years ago. In Rome, of course. YEARS before these were deemed even remotely fashionable. I am SUCH a trendsetter, right.

After the shock from the algae-infested-pool-incident had settled, we finally had the time to start looking more closely at the rest of the house. To our great shock, something - or rather SOMEONE was missing. The garden gnome. The one I had so carefully brought to France in my hand luggage for him to get a better life. Had he now run away, the ungrateful little piece of sh**? Or had he been kidnapped?

Of course, I have seen the fabulous movie about the fabulous Amelie from Montmartre. And how her gnome suddenly disappeared, only to start sending her postcards from all over the world. So maybe he is just on a little self-realizing trip around the world, and I can start looking forward to postcards from faraway places in the mail?

You know, these things DO happen. Someone I used to know had it happen to her gnome. He suddenly disappeared from her balcony in Brussels. And then suddenly she received a photo of it sunbathing in a huge green field a whole year after. So these things do happen in real life, too.

I just hope he is happy.

The devil

My totally worn-out silver sandals purchased on my trip to Brazil in 2008. No idea what brand, but they where terribly cheap.  So, you see, I am not really a shoe snob. Right.

Returned to our little cocoon in France again, after a hellish week. This time - we are back for the summer! Yay! Opening the doors of the winter garden on to the terrace we catch the first signs of the disaster. The pool is GREEN. Yup. Very much so. A very HAIRY kind of green. Shit-shit-shit.  I instantly call the gardener / pool man. Managing to explain in my quite limited French that "la piscine" is "pas bon" (I am starting to realize that my house and gardening vocabulary in French is also "pas bon"). Still, somehow he gets the message, and arrives five minutes later. There is a lot of "oh-la-la"-ing and "oh-lo-lo"-ing.

Then, he starts chain-smoking, and staring into the pool. Like STARING at algae will make it go away. In retrospect, I guess he was just waiting for me to offer him a cold beer. While he was working. Oh. So. Hard.

After standing there for fifteen minutes - fifteen minutes that felt more like an hour, he gave me instructions to go buy some anti-algae stuff for the pool. Before assuring me that it was absolutely no problem to swim, the algae is not "dangereuse". All while giving me his sleazy grin combined with a not the least discrete version of his "knowing" elevator look. Eeeeeek.

I really don't know what is the matter with this guy. Everytime there is talk of the pool, he is making gestures for me to jump in. IS this because I am Scandinavian? And blonde? Funny this. You know how Americans perceive the Europeans to be so "natural" and "free". I once visited a hotel beach (!) in Vegas that had a EUROPEAN dress code. Which meant that girls were allowed to sunbathe topless. Very European, yeah. So, when you get to Europe - more specifically FRANCE, all of a sudden it is the SCANDINAVIANS that are perceived as the "wild ones". Apparently, we are totally happy to jump in an algae infested pool with a sleazy gardener watching. Oh yeah. Know what? In Scandinavia, the general opinion is that it is the SWEDISH girls that behave like that. Hm. I wonder what they say in Sweden then. Perhaps there is some tiny remote village in Sweden where there are girls that really behave like porn stars? Just wondering.

Anyway. As Madame did not seem to want to go swimming, Quasimodo decided to leave the premises. With the green pool left very much in the same condition as it was upon his arrival.

The morning after I waited outside the "jardins et piscines" section of the huge Castorama (the go-to-place for anything practical) in Le Cannet. BEFORE 8 in the morning. Scratching on the door. Together with two older guys that were most probably retired (or should have been). You know how old people always get up early. Is it because they fear that they might die soon, so they need to make the most out of the limited time they have left? I have no idea.

I returned to the house with the green pond a good hour later. Armed with three huge plastic cans containing an anti-algae solution that I guess is good to kill algae, but mot probably it is not what you would want to SWIM in. Won't do much for your skin I guess. But most importantly -  I was joined by the most impressive machine ever seen by humans. THE DIRT DEVIL. Nothing less. A robot that randomly moves round the bottom of the pool sucking all yuckiness into a small filter. (That needs to be cleaned by a MAN afterwards, as it is TOTALLY yucky with a mix of crawling LIVE ALGAE and dead insects in it). The incredible robot even climbs and brushes the walls of the pool. I think somebody ought to give the the inventor a Nobel Prize.

So, Mr. Incredible has a bright red new friend. Robert the Robot. As we did not really like the devil-name. And we have a much cleaner pool.

Of course, Quasimodo returned in the afternoon. So that he could take credit for all the work that Mr. Incredible had done on the pool. The work we had already been so stupid to pay the French little rat to do THREE MONTHS IN ADVANCE.

Ok, making that prepayment WAS a bit blonde. I have to admit that.