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.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

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.