Gas (Gasp) Prices

I've been fretting of late, most recently to my younger sister, about the cobwebs on this blog. This is due not just to my neglect in favor of writing work that actually pays some cash and therefore keeps food on the table, but also to what has been, to my mind, a dearth of subjects to write about. I'm particularly concerned about this diarrhea of the fingers I invariably suffer from, and feel I should try to be pithier in my blog entries. Ideally, I'd be turning them into blurbs so they're a quicker read.  But I ramble...

I returned from Portugal a week ago, and today I ventured out to gas up the car. I've been reading of late — often accompanied by amused eye rolls and patronizing chuckles — of the rending of garments and gnashing of teeth in the USA now that gas prices have pushed up as high as $3.90/gallon in some places such as California, according to a Yahoo! headline just this afternoon.

I drove up to the supermarket station which typically has, within a few pennies (or should I say centimes) the cheapest prices around. I pursed my lips as my brain absorbed the sign: €1.51 per litre. Clearly my income really is meant to put food on the table. It doesn't yet extend to putting petrol in the tank.

Basic unleaded gas had been €1.40/litre when I'd left in late January, pretty much where it's been for the last few years, give or take. I had intended today to fill the tank. I settled for half that and shelled out €40 to the cashier. Had my French been good enough, I might have asked if that price came with an oxygen tank.

I came home and hit the trusty Google. It confirmed first that there are 3.78541178 litres in a gallon. (Sorry, I've been doing a lot of editing of Australian books so my fingers keep writing UK English.)

A currency check confirmed that €1.50 equals $2.10. So, according to my calculations, gas has jumped 75 cents a gallon here in the past week or so, to $7.95 per gallon. Yes, that's up from last week's $7.10-$7.15, a price we've been paying pretty steadily over the past few years, at least since 2007, if I recall correctly.

Oxygen anyone?

Magical Biarritz

Travel seems to come so naturally here in France that I'm often astounded when I sit down and account for all the places I've been recently.

I was reviewing client e-mails in order to update them on my whereabouts and saw one where a client wrote, "Have fun on your trip." I was momentarily startled that I'd already told him of my trip to Portugal. Instead, it was the six-day trip to Normandy and Paris that I'd taken in October/November. He didn't even know that I'd headed off to Portugal by way of Biarritz and Salamanca (Spain) for five weeks.

My friend Innis and I decided that we could pay for the month of February in southernmost Portugal, actually the westernmost section of Europe, for essentially what we would jointly pay for our heating for the month. Mind you, February is hardly the severe month that I've grown up knowing in New Jersey, New York City and Connecticut. When I left the last week of January, my daffodils were already about five inches high, leaving me to wonder if I'd miss their entire blooming period if I didn't come back until the first week of March.

But leave I did, heading first to Biarritz for the first time for several days. I knew of the reputation of Biarritz as a long-reigning spa resort and indeed it still is although it's a shadow of its former glory in a day where such places were completely out of reach of 'regular folks.'

We stayed in a dog-friendly hotel just a block or so from the beach where a stunning compound lies, one which my friend told me was frequented by Napoleon and his Josephine.

One visit and I could see the magic of Biarritz. It was but a short stay but it surely won't be my last.

Learning a New Language

As usual the days, no the weeks...no, in fact, the month has gotten away from me.  I did return to the Martizay French class and had a blast teaching this terrific, enthusiastic group basic English. It brought to light one fundamental fact, however.

With the profusion of Brits in this region and the dearth of Americans, it is as if oftentimes we speak a different language. I bumped up against this in the French class when I realized the vernacular I took for granted wasn't quite so common because the French learn British style English. A sweater to Americans is a pullover to Brits; pants to them are underwear while our version of pants are what they call trousers; what we call suspenders they call braces and what they call suspenders are something men wear to keep their socks from falling down. Suit vests to us are waistcoats to them; their version of a vest is an undershirt.

Since I've moved to France, I'm learning an entirely different language —  English. And I'm someone who's grown up with a reasonable exposure to Irish English so I'm hardly as uninitiated as the typical American. I grew up reading English and Irish books and spending summers in Ireland. My mother still remembers how cross she was one September  when one of us —  either my sister, Eithne, or I —  had been marked off on a spelling test for writing 'colour' instead of 'color.' (Of course our revenge was going on to become local and state spelling bee champions respectively at the age of 14 at that same school.)

Now, surrounded by Brits, I've found myself adopting much of the dialectic slang, a sort of 'when in Rome, do as the Romans do' communication attempt. I stop off to fill my car with petrol, I reach for kitchen roll instead of paper towels, cling film instead of plastic wrap, aluminium instead of aluminum foil, and indicate something's a one-off when it happens but once.

Expressions I still struggle with are numerous: rawlplugs instead of anchors (the plastic plugs you put into plaster when you drill holes to hang pictures and such; rawlplug is apparently a trade name, much as using Kleenex or Xerox in lieu of tissues and photocopies); a crosshead is  a Phillips screwdriver while a slotted screwdriver is what we call a flathead. Aren't all screwdrivers technically slotted?

Words that are not readily apparent are the ones that naturally baffle me the most. "That's completely naff," has me running for the internet dictionary to remind myself that it means inferior, less than desirable or, in more extreme applications, an alternate to one of the more internationally recognized four-letter words. 'I'm chuffed' always makes me pause because it means you're delighted when somehow to me it sounds like I'm chafed or completely annoyed.

Some that are at least potentially fathomable are 'taking the piss out of someone' (making fun of them), or 'chucking it down' (it's raining hard).

It's no wonder that I'm still struggling here to learn French. I'm still learning English!

English Faux Pas

Recently I had been told of a conversational group that had started up in my village, designed, someone said, to permit French-speaking people to learn English and English-speaking people to learn French. I was quite excited about it although my heavy work schedule meant I had to miss the first few meetings.

Today, despite a still rather onerous schedule, I was determined to attend the two-hour gathering. I spied one familiar face, Marie-Laure, a dynamic and delightful French woman who is a friend to the woman who sold me my house and had dropped by shortly after I arrived in Martizay last year to introduce herself. Her lack of English and my lack of French weren't enough to deter either of us. So I was pleased to see a friendly face.

I was disappointed, however, when I discovered that, instead of being a conversational exchange, this was simply a beginner's course in English for French speakers. Reluctant to be rude and just walk out, I elected to stay for today's session and try to do all the assigned exercises in French instead of English. Marie-Laure kept an eye on my work and corrected any mistakes while doing her own work at the same time.

A bit of a stickler for grammar, I was dismayed to see the first example the teacher, a volunteer British Martizay resident, put up on the board. She was illustrating how to make a negative statement out of an affirmative one. She wrote, "I am good," followed by "I am not good."

I bit my lip and wondered if I'd make it to the end of the two hours without tearing my hair out if this continued. I was half-expecting her to write "I could of" instead of "I could have," another glaring error that seems to be growing in popularity now, likely due to how few people bother to pick up a book these days and actually see the language.

I weathered the class with reasonably few winces (it was a friendly, fun group) and, when they announced that the volunteer teacher would be away for the next two weeks, I asked the program coordinator off to one side who would be teaching. Marie-Christine shook her head sorrowfully and whispered, "No one."

I knew I had a pretty demanding schedule but I couldn't help myself--this would be a great way to become a more familiar face to some of the villagers without being handicapped by my dearth of French. I asked if there was anything I could do. Marie-Christine's face brightened and next thing I knew I had agreed to return next week to teach the class.

Maybe if I do a good job, Marie-Christine will work with me to start a real conversational exchange group. My English may be above average but Lord knows my French sure ain't!

Christmas Expectations

Ever since I left the USA in October of 2006, I left behind all the manic, stress-filled, end-of-year lavish decorating, gift-giving and meal-making holiday prep. I’d abandoned Martha Stewart for Debt-Free-Living. It was both energizing and stressful in its own right. I found myself still trying to buy for nephew and niece despite not having an income anymore--and no prospect of one, traveling abroad relying on my savings. This despite it costing me more than a hundred dollars just in postage for gifts equal to that, not to mention being vastly less than I could thoughtlessly spring for in previous years.  No matter how hard I wanted to shed the material aspect of my former life, it was hard to shed the expectation and tradition at times.

Christmas of 2009 was my first Christmas as a true resident of France, after spending 2006 escaping my first and arguably most nightmarish housesit on the Route du Paulmy in Ferrière-Larçon, leaving idyllic Vienna mid-December 2007 for my second nightmarish housesit in England before bailing for Ireland a mere two months later (but returning to my friend’s in Ferriere for the holiday), and then returning to the USA Nov-Dec 2008 before dashing back to Ferriere for a relaxed New Year’s. Funny but it’s only at this writing that I realize how I always managed to time my return to France to coincide with some part of each and every year-end holiday, an escape from onerous and unrealistic expectations, tensions and stress, short tempers and a feeling of ‘where has the real spirit of Christmas gone?’

This past Christmas, as the year before, was spent with a friend just kicking back, relaxing, no huge turkey dinner to spend days preparing for, and an informal promise to each other that if we chose to stay in our pajamas all day while we grazed on a pre-made buffet of foie gras terrine and other cold homemade finger foods, that would be quite within our rights.

In fact, the only gift-giving was to be to our sibling dogs, and I’d brought the doggie stockings to stuff. Tilly for some inconceivable reason, glommed on to her stocking at first sight days before, despite the fact that I hadn’t stowed anything inside of it beyond a tennis ball and another toy, quite out of sight. Treats and additional toys from my friend had yet to be secreted inside. When I stowed them out of Tilly's reach, she whined and cried, staring incessantly at the embroidered terrier dogs before, exasperated, I gave up and stuffed them inside the wardrobe until it was time to bring them to my friend's home on Christmas Day.

Well, Christmas has come and gone and the stockings emptied. Once I’d returned home on the 29th, the empty stockings resumed their places, hanging from the mantel, a charming accoutrement to the other holiday decorations that grace the fireplace when the evening fire is lit, including fat bunches of mistletoe, which grows rampant on the trees here. But expectations have not been laid to rest no matter how many new toys litter the floor. Each night has been laced with bouts of piteous cries as Tilly suddenly spies her stocking and stands on the fireplace foot, staring covetously first at one and then the other, convinced that more treasures must lie within. Ah, those great expectations!

A White Christmas? Or Merely a Wet One?

Putting up my Christmas tree can be a challenge here. I have a lovely artificial tree that’s about 17 years old which I brought from America, but it’s too big to put up inside the house without blocking some luxury I’m loath to part with—such as access to the bathroom. So I compromised and put it out in the porch.

In truth, it's a little big for the porch as well. I had to buy a new topper because my old, faithful one was too tall. At least this year I got smart and skipped installing the lower branches on one side where it crushes up against the living room wall so it fits a lot better than it did last year. And no one's the wiser. (Well, except for anyone who might actually be reading this.)

In fact, it’s turned out to be a charming location because, from where it sits, my neighbors can see it through the glass doors when they pass by on their evening walks if they look beyond the garden gate, and I can see it because it’s on the other side of the living room window which looks directly onto the garden.

My dog, Tilly, seems to think it’s quite charming, too. Evenings she’s happy sitting beneath it on the red satin tree skirt looking out onto the road at the passing neighbors, ready to react if some presumptuous dog or cat prances by.

I do hope she doesn’t start thinking of it as indoor plumbing.

A New Look at Age

My friend and I are planning a mid-January, five- to six-week trip down to southernmost Portugal with the two dogs, Finlay and Tilly. (Finlay is Tilly’s brother.) We thought it would be nice to travel south, trading in temps of at or below freezing to ones more, well, if not summer-like, at least spring-like. 

It’s not easy to find places that take dogs, at least outside France. When she was researching places and sending out inquiry e-mails, Innis found one good possibility down in the Algarve, about 16 hours drive from where we are in the Loire-et-Indre region.

Innis told me she’d written to reassure the owner that we were just two middle-aged women with small dogs. I read that and I immediately bristled.  Middle-aged? I’m not middle-aged!  I’m…oh, wait. GULP. I’m 50.  Well, okay, I’m 50 but I’m not fifty!  And 50 is like the new 30, right?

Or maybe it just looks like 30 because I can’t seem to put my hands on those damned reading glasses I keep misplacing…

Triumph at the Arc de Triomphe!

Recently I found myself in Paris behind the wheel. I've never had occasion to drive in Paris before but the GPS admittedly makes me far more confident. 

After seeing my parents off at the airport, I headed into the city with my friend, Innis, to see the huge Monet exhibition at the Grand Palais. Programming the GPS for the fastest route to the palace had me heading west up the broad and heavily trafficked Avenue des Champs-Élysées.

As we approached the Arc de Triomphe, Innis became alarmed that the GPS was taking us on the massive and infamous roundabout that encircles the monument. It's pretty much a free-for-all, with a dozen streets radiating from it like a wagon wheel.

"I don't think this is a good idea," Innis said, hoping I'd elect to get off before reaching the immense traffic circle. (There are no lane markings and cars circle round it, crisscrossing madly.) I took one hand off the wheel to fish inside my handbag for my camera. I sat the camera atop the steering wheel without taking my eyes off the moving traffic.

"Now this REALLY isn't a good idea. Why don't you let me do that?"  Nah, got it covered, as my finger clicked the shutter.

Innis closed her eyes.

"Live a little," I said, feeling a quicksilver rush of adrenalin as we neared the roundabout.

"That's about all we'll have left to live," she muttered.

"Piece of cake," I said, as we sailed around and exited on the opposite side without a scratch or honking horn.

Later that evening, I sailed through it again, this time in the dark. Innis was impressed. But then she's never seen me on the BQE (Brooklyn-Queens Expressway) at rush hour....