So far - this new year awaited with such trepidation hasn't really been stellar for me.
Quite the contrary.
My days have been filled with much negativity, tears, doubts and overall sadness. January usually does that to me, so I am not that surprised but I cannot really write in a state of mild depression.
So I read.
And watch.
So that I don't think too much.
This time of crisis - or mental hibernation like I used to call it - hasn't been totally sterile though. From all this brooding over emerged two things I can get quite excited about as soon as the heavy veil is lifted - soon.
Two things I never really thought I would partake in. Unless I were a man in his late 40s and on the verge of a midlife crisis. I guess crises are inherently all the same. They require, urge, demand with an unsettling vigor something different. Radical.
So I decided on an impulse to go skydiving. I just seized the opportunity, without thinking about it twice and received my little information packet in the mail last week. I have never been really curious about it but it feels just right.
And I am quite elated about it.
The other thing has been with me for quite a while, in a corner of my head I usually don't visit very often, especially since I did the big leap of faith of crossing the Atlantic eight years ago, on yet another whim. I must have thought that it was adventure enough for a while, and that I could sit back and rest a bit before considering anything remotely as daring. But now the time has come, and I rested enough.
I want to learn how to drive a bike. A motorbike, that is. I want to have this unique feeling of freedom, control and speed, and abandon myself in it. Not for thrill-seeking sake. I am not that much of a risk taker, at least not in a literal way. I just need to feel alive again, to get rid of the numbness I have been feeling for the last few years and this is the perfect way to do it.
So even though 2010 has started 'off' I still want to make it my year. A year of change and achievement. A year of happiness.
January is almost done.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Snow Day
Every time the weather forecast issues a winter advisory - I am clapping my hands, jumping and bouncing around like a little girl.
At least - when snow is involved.
Today 9 inches are expected over the city, up to a foot by the lake front (and guess where I live?!?!?) - nothing can make me happier in the dead of winter.
Except of course that today - I had to cancel lunch with darling Kelly......that's what happens when you have a wreck of a car that is still damaged from a previous accident. No right front light, a very bruised bumper, scratches and the engine light on. Even though we are indeed in 2010 and that the stretch of bad luck should be officially over - I didn't really want to put that to the test.
Not today.
Strangely enough, none of my snow memories are linked with childhood. It snows every winter in my part of France but usually not enough to be really memorable. And - please note - never for Christmas. That would be too much to ask for.
Of course.
But I do have a picture of me at 7 or so, all bundled up in a red anorak, an itchy balaclava (man did I hate these things) and thick white tights. I am grinning to the camera in front of a freshly made snowman. One of the few things I did during my life with my dad. We were on vacation at my great-aunt house in Alsace, and my little cousin (11 or 12 at the time) was listening endlessly to "Careless Whisper" and day-dreaming of George Michael.
I had then a painful encounter with cold and snow in Eastern Europe; Prague was blanketed with a thick layer of white powder, muffling every sound in the city. It was magical, and still unspoiled by tourism. I fell in love for the first time. I was going on 16.
The painful part came a few days later in the plains of Bohemia, when the Siberia wind was blowing over the Auschwitz/Birkenau camps. The temperatures plummeted down to a frigid minus 35 degrees Celsius; we had to shorten our visit and go back inside the bus.
The next memory is set yet again a few years later, this time back in my hometown.
Winter of 1996-1997. An exceptional one. Snow stayed on the ground 29 out of the 31 days of January. It was such a big deal that it was even talked about in the news on national television. You can just imagine the precious report that came out of it, journalists asking people on the street how they felt about 'the situation'; it was meant to be serious. It was just hilarious.
I remember throwing my first dinner 'party' that month; small circle - restricted to my family: mom, step-dad, brother and mamie. I went grocery shopping with warm boots on, elated to have people over for the very first time, in my very first place. I was happy. I had planned a wonderful meal, with duck breast as a star and a hell of a dessert.
That ended up being the first and only visit of mamie to my place.
So, yes. Close to my heart.
After that - snow for me is all about the US. First in Connecticut, where my second winter was punctuated by a dozen blizzards. I loved being snowed in in my little blue house in the woods, surrounded by absolute silence. It was utterly beautiful. I remember watching intently The Weather Channel from the diner across the road, praying for more bad weather coming my way. Being aware of my eccentric and slightly irresponsible yearn but unable to join the choir of laments when sorry weathermen were promising more inches. Trying instead to repress a smile.
I knew the danger involved though. I had been caught in a nasty storm on my way back from Providence after Thanksgiving weekend, and had driven in a snow vortex for five hours. A surreal experience. Even the ultimate chore of snow shoveling an entire driveway was not bad enough to make me wish for dry weather.
Call me nuts if you want. There is no rationality involved.
Snow days in Chicago aren't of course as enchanting. The immaculate beauty cannot compete for very long with the hustle and bustle of the city. But it is more striking in a way. The neighborhood is different; softer. Quiet. Forgiving. I love going out at night under the falling flakes, arm in arm with my sweetie, listening to the unmistakable cracking sound of our shoes on the covered sidewalk. Shivering a bit, red-nosed and eyes-watering I just enjoy a pure cluster of happiness. One of these plaisirs minuscules around which Philippe Delerme wrote a little masterpiece.
A tiny pleasure.
Can't wait for tonight...
At least - when snow is involved.
Today 9 inches are expected over the city, up to a foot by the lake front (and guess where I live?!?!?) - nothing can make me happier in the dead of winter.
Except of course that today - I had to cancel lunch with darling Kelly......that's what happens when you have a wreck of a car that is still damaged from a previous accident. No right front light, a very bruised bumper, scratches and the engine light on. Even though we are indeed in 2010 and that the stretch of bad luck should be officially over - I didn't really want to put that to the test.
Not today.
Strangely enough, none of my snow memories are linked with childhood. It snows every winter in my part of France but usually not enough to be really memorable. And - please note - never for Christmas. That would be too much to ask for.
Of course.
But I do have a picture of me at 7 or so, all bundled up in a red anorak, an itchy balaclava (man did I hate these things) and thick white tights. I am grinning to the camera in front of a freshly made snowman. One of the few things I did during my life with my dad. We were on vacation at my great-aunt house in Alsace, and my little cousin (11 or 12 at the time) was listening endlessly to "Careless Whisper" and day-dreaming of George Michael.
I had then a painful encounter with cold and snow in Eastern Europe; Prague was blanketed with a thick layer of white powder, muffling every sound in the city. It was magical, and still unspoiled by tourism. I fell in love for the first time. I was going on 16.
The painful part came a few days later in the plains of Bohemia, when the Siberia wind was blowing over the Auschwitz/Birkenau camps. The temperatures plummeted down to a frigid minus 35 degrees Celsius; we had to shorten our visit and go back inside the bus.
The next memory is set yet again a few years later, this time back in my hometown.
Winter of 1996-1997. An exceptional one. Snow stayed on the ground 29 out of the 31 days of January. It was such a big deal that it was even talked about in the news on national television. You can just imagine the precious report that came out of it, journalists asking people on the street how they felt about 'the situation'; it was meant to be serious. It was just hilarious.
I remember throwing my first dinner 'party' that month; small circle - restricted to my family: mom, step-dad, brother and mamie. I went grocery shopping with warm boots on, elated to have people over for the very first time, in my very first place. I was happy. I had planned a wonderful meal, with duck breast as a star and a hell of a dessert.
That ended up being the first and only visit of mamie to my place.
So, yes. Close to my heart.
After that - snow for me is all about the US. First in Connecticut, where my second winter was punctuated by a dozen blizzards. I loved being snowed in in my little blue house in the woods, surrounded by absolute silence. It was utterly beautiful. I remember watching intently The Weather Channel from the diner across the road, praying for more bad weather coming my way. Being aware of my eccentric and slightly irresponsible yearn but unable to join the choir of laments when sorry weathermen were promising more inches. Trying instead to repress a smile.
I knew the danger involved though. I had been caught in a nasty storm on my way back from Providence after Thanksgiving weekend, and had driven in a snow vortex for five hours. A surreal experience. Even the ultimate chore of snow shoveling an entire driveway was not bad enough to make me wish for dry weather.
Call me nuts if you want. There is no rationality involved.
Snow days in Chicago aren't of course as enchanting. The immaculate beauty cannot compete for very long with the hustle and bustle of the city. But it is more striking in a way. The neighborhood is different; softer. Quiet. Forgiving. I love going out at night under the falling flakes, arm in arm with my sweetie, listening to the unmistakable cracking sound of our shoes on the covered sidewalk. Shivering a bit, red-nosed and eyes-watering I just enjoy a pure cluster of happiness. One of these plaisirs minuscules around which Philippe Delerme wrote a little masterpiece.
A tiny pleasure.
Can't wait for tonight...
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
A Lovely Escapade
It's not much.
164 small pages.
A bright, colorful cover of rice paper bags.
And a wonderful title that plays beautifully with the French language. A title I can only dream of translating. Something that goes way beyond words and carries a whole world of meaning - a title-universe.
A true and rare gem.
I am a huge mystery fan. I read loads of them, and has this silly and frivolous pleasure to be able to put my hands way before my beloved friend Anne (back home) on the last Elizabeth George's installment. I do own (almost) all of them. Love.
I am not and has never been ashamed of my fascination with detective stories. I started as a kid with Enid Blyton and her 'Famous Five', 'upgraded' to the Alice Roy series and never stopped since. I am really and truly addicted, and have devoured hundreds of titles over the years. It was my vice as a literature student but one I proudly embraced; I even considered for a moment writing my dissertation on it.
But one cannot seriously live off one's vice, right?
I like my books like old faithful friends. Always entertaining, never disappointing.
A solid rock to rely on, one of the best ways to live through the long winter days. And a nice collection of memories.
But they are not earth-shattering. They don't make my heart flutter, don't fill my stomach with butterflies, don't transport me over the clouds.
Don't bring me to tears - of laughter or emotion.
They are companions.
Not lovers.
L'Echappée belle is one of these jewels that make you live. And shine. And want.
It's not only a 'lovely escapade' - a possible translation, but one that only would only cover half of the meaning; therefore actually impossible.
Yes, it is a charming and bucolic little piece filled with swirling butterflies, summer light, humming bees and warm hay smells. A fond look on the French countryside, its simple beauty, its rusticity, its essential earthiness. The 'profound' country of my childhood, virtually unknown on this side of the ocean. The small village wedding. The terrace of an old-fashioned café on the main square, with its tables under the chestnut trees. The picnic on a plaid blanket by the river. Red wine and saucissons, fresh bread still warm from the bakery oven, plump fruits and daisy necklaces. The old castle in ruins hidden behind the road curve. Wild flowers. Church bells.
A simple, provincial form of happiness that talks to the heart. Words so powerful in their suggestive power that I could almost feel the breeze on my face, hear the chirping birds and feel at home.
Almost.
I escaped for a (too) short couple of hours with the characters, left my life behind and just let myself be. Feel. And it is tough nowadays.
Reading Anna Gavalda made me incredibly home-sick, but also loaded me up with joy and nostalgia. Few books can claim that pride. But when I find one of those, I cherish them all my life.
I haven't talked about the second aspect of the title; s'échapper is of course to escape, but l'échapper belle is even more than that; you escape just in time. You barely made it. But you did. And that's what counts, after all.
To make it.
Monday, January 4, 2010
The Holiday - part 2: The End
I really have mixed feelings about the holidays, and pretty much always have. Well - not when I was 4 or 5 and prepping Santa his plate. I even added a carrot for the reindeer.
One.
Looking back on it it's funny how logic totally escapes you as a kid. Because only a couple of few weeks before that St Nicholas' donkey was entitled to a carrot of its own. No sharing involved. Unfairness if it ever was.
Then my parents divorced and I had to share my holiday time between them two. That meant twice the gifts (as my comrades at school kept telling me) but from the inside it was hard to see it that way. As a teenager I was only thinking of the time off it meant; as a young adult I had to spend hours trying to figure out a tight schedule where time would be equally divided between mom, dad and my boyfriend's family.
Oh boy.
Then I came to the US. And Christmas was never the same again.
But what has never changed is the mild depression that comes with January. The Holiday soufflé falls down, and we are left with a sense of...well...deflation. I know I am. I am always dreading NYE because of drunk drivers, overpriced parties and awkward kissing time at midnight but also because it signals the end of a time that, for sure, has lost most of its magic over time but is still one of the highlights of the year, whether one likes it or not. In France we have the redeeming celebration of the Epiphany (traditionally on the 6th - conveniently displaced to the first Sunday of the month to accommodate modern society) but after that and the succulent galette des rois, nothing. Nada. C'est fini. The Christmas tree comes down, the garlands go back in the basement, and checkbooks in drawers until the end of the month. Then starts the long strand of gray and cold, cold days. Spring seems further than ever. You just want to become Phil (the groundhog, not the doctor) and go to sleep until the first bud spotting. Shadow seeing or not.
January is just emptiness.
And this tremendous void doesn't make new resolutions any easier. Right?
But sometimes the beginning of the year can really and truly signals a true beginning.
Clean slate.
Let's write a new story.
It happened twice over these last three years, and I am determined to do it again. Because three times the charm.
This year is dedicated to my body. Beautify it, strengthen it, heal it....just take care of it. Because it's worth it. I am worth it!! ; )
Stay tuned...
One.
Looking back on it it's funny how logic totally escapes you as a kid. Because only a couple of few weeks before that St Nicholas' donkey was entitled to a carrot of its own. No sharing involved. Unfairness if it ever was.
Then my parents divorced and I had to share my holiday time between them two. That meant twice the gifts (as my comrades at school kept telling me) but from the inside it was hard to see it that way. As a teenager I was only thinking of the time off it meant; as a young adult I had to spend hours trying to figure out a tight schedule where time would be equally divided between mom, dad and my boyfriend's family.
Oh boy.
Then I came to the US. And Christmas was never the same again.
But what has never changed is the mild depression that comes with January. The Holiday soufflé falls down, and we are left with a sense of...well...deflation. I know I am. I am always dreading NYE because of drunk drivers, overpriced parties and awkward kissing time at midnight but also because it signals the end of a time that, for sure, has lost most of its magic over time but is still one of the highlights of the year, whether one likes it or not. In France we have the redeeming celebration of the Epiphany (traditionally on the 6th - conveniently displaced to the first Sunday of the month to accommodate modern society) but after that and the succulent galette des rois, nothing. Nada. C'est fini. The Christmas tree comes down, the garlands go back in the basement, and checkbooks in drawers until the end of the month. Then starts the long strand of gray and cold, cold days. Spring seems further than ever. You just want to become Phil (the groundhog, not the doctor) and go to sleep until the first bud spotting. Shadow seeing or not.
January is just emptiness.
And this tremendous void doesn't make new resolutions any easier. Right?
But sometimes the beginning of the year can really and truly signals a true beginning.
Clean slate.
Let's write a new story.
It happened twice over these last three years, and I am determined to do it again. Because three times the charm.
This year is dedicated to my body. Beautify it, strengthen it, heal it....just take care of it. Because it's worth it. I am worth it!! ; )
Stay tuned...
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
The Holiday
I cannot help as I am typing the title of this entry to think of this wonderful (cheesy?) Hollywood installment that came out three years ago, and sports the same exact title.
"The Holiday".
3 reasons for that:
- it was on TV last Saturday at the gym, and when you suffer willingly on the treadmill for 45 minutes your brain seems to really suck everything in like a thirsty sponge...the images still very clearly float in front of my eyes, in the most taunting, excruciating of ways.
Season spirit.
Oy.
- I saw the movie for the first time (and the only time in its totality) on Christmas Day 2006 with my mom, my step-dad and my little brother. That was the last time I was in France, and it seems like an eternity ago. I was still single, a student and slim(mer). Before judging us on our questionable taste in movies you have to know that the four of us at home without anything constructive to do is the perfect recipe for disaster and a collective nervous breakdown. So I would take anything over the inevitable staring contest that follows too many days spent together in a small apartment.
Even a money-making movie in a gigantic multiplex that reeks of popcorn. Yes. It is a reality, even in my hometown.
- I know I am crazy and God forbid she reads this - but Cameron Diaz reminds me of my lovely friend Paige, with whom I am going to spend quite some time until the end of the year (gal, you don't know what you got yourself into. Just sayin'.) She doesn't really look like her, even though she is tall, blonde and have killer teeth - I mean smile. 'Cause she has never torn anybody to pieces with her powerful and extra white canines to my knowledge, but she is quite the gentlemen-killer when she cracks a smile. If you don't believe me just ask Mr M. who daily claims his love to her in every cute way possible. Anyway - the resemblance is not so much physical than it is behavioral: same enthusiasm, facial expressions, ample movements and bursts of laughing voice.
Well - not quite 'same' but you got the drill.
She is....jovial. And it is contagious. And that's why I love her.
So yes, the holiday season is here and it is all well and good.
But if it is the time to be merry, jolly and all ta-la-la-la it is NOT the time to write. Several people told me recently: "Ha! You didn't keep up with your blog!" in a way that paranoiac me took as a challenging your-little-blogging-fluke-didn't-last-long-after-all.
I told them, and more importantly tell myself, that I cannot be creative in more than one way at the time. It may be sad and relegates me to the rank of single-focused men (oh dear! what would the ladies of The L Word think of that?) but the fact is - I cannot.
I made my Christmas cards, some pieces of jewelry, cookies, jams, menus. Christmas shopped, wrapped presents and even got my teeth cleaned and filled.
I didn't write.
I am ok with it.
So the only thing I can say - write - for now is that I wish all of you readers the most wonderful holiday season. May it be filled with love, joy, warmth and friendship. I'll be around next year to tell you more crosswords stories. That's a promise.
"The Holiday".
3 reasons for that:
- it was on TV last Saturday at the gym, and when you suffer willingly on the treadmill for 45 minutes your brain seems to really suck everything in like a thirsty sponge...the images still very clearly float in front of my eyes, in the most taunting, excruciating of ways.
Season spirit.
Oy.
- I saw the movie for the first time (and the only time in its totality) on Christmas Day 2006 with my mom, my step-dad and my little brother. That was the last time I was in France, and it seems like an eternity ago. I was still single, a student and slim(mer). Before judging us on our questionable taste in movies you have to know that the four of us at home without anything constructive to do is the perfect recipe for disaster and a collective nervous breakdown. So I would take anything over the inevitable staring contest that follows too many days spent together in a small apartment.
Even a money-making movie in a gigantic multiplex that reeks of popcorn. Yes. It is a reality, even in my hometown.
- I know I am crazy and God forbid she reads this - but Cameron Diaz reminds me of my lovely friend Paige, with whom I am going to spend quite some time until the end of the year (gal, you don't know what you got yourself into. Just sayin'.) She doesn't really look like her, even though she is tall, blonde and have killer teeth - I mean smile. 'Cause she has never torn anybody to pieces with her powerful and extra white canines to my knowledge, but she is quite the gentlemen-killer when she cracks a smile. If you don't believe me just ask Mr M. who daily claims his love to her in every cute way possible. Anyway - the resemblance is not so much physical than it is behavioral: same enthusiasm, facial expressions, ample movements and bursts of laughing voice.
Well - not quite 'same' but you got the drill.
She is....jovial. And it is contagious. And that's why I love her.
So yes, the holiday season is here and it is all well and good.
But if it is the time to be merry, jolly and all ta-la-la-la it is NOT the time to write. Several people told me recently: "Ha! You didn't keep up with your blog!" in a way that paranoiac me took as a challenging your-little-blogging-fluke-didn't-last-long-after-all.
I told them, and more importantly tell myself, that I cannot be creative in more than one way at the time. It may be sad and relegates me to the rank of single-focused men (oh dear! what would the ladies of The L Word think of that?) but the fact is - I cannot.
I made my Christmas cards, some pieces of jewelry, cookies, jams, menus. Christmas shopped, wrapped presents and even got my teeth cleaned and filled.
I didn't write.
I am ok with it.
So the only thing I can say - write - for now is that I wish all of you readers the most wonderful holiday season. May it be filled with love, joy, warmth and friendship. I'll be around next year to tell you more crosswords stories. That's a promise.
****************
Jordan, if you read this - please leave a little note. I cannot wait to meet you soon and tell you how crazy I am about "Long Way Down"!
Sunday, November 22, 2009
To Your Credit
"Remember that credit is money"
This little wonder of a statement wasn't uttered by a CEO of a major financial institution; nope - Chase is not even to blame for that one. Surprising, I know.
Believe it or not (and you American citizens may all know this valuable piece of information; in that case I do apologize most sincerely; I really don't want to waste your time: I heard it's money too) the author of the quote is one of the Founding Fathers of America, the beloved and awfully hair-styled, the one and only Benjamin Franklin.
He had to be some kind of visionary, or was struck by genius or something (living in such close proximity to thunder had to have some side effects, right?). Had he known that his future countrymen would so blindly follow his lead, he would have thought twice about what he was saying. Or twirl his tongue in his mouth seven times (French exercise recommended by grandmas and political advisers all over the board before you start talking. Exhausting but effective.)
So let me tell you a little bit about my experience with credit. No long financial talk (I would be totally incapable and most of all, unwilling to do so) and no miserable stories (not yet at least), just a few anecdotes to share...no worries.
Meet Sandra, former colleague of mine. On her first trip to IKEA (the mandatory thing to do when you arrive in a new city, especially in Chicago where you have the luxury of choice: Northern or Western suburbs? It determines your whole future so please pick carefully) she found herself confronted to a riddle. Something so big and incomprehensible that she was at loss for words (which didn't seem to happen very often according to the people who knew her much better than me. I believe them.)
The scene takes place at the check-out line; it's time to pay. Sandra opens her wallet to get her card.
IKEA Cashier: Credit or Debit?
Sandra: ...............
IKEA Cashier (slightly annoyed): Credit or Debit?
Sandra (looks at Mireille, her driver and co-shopper for the day, for help. She doesn't understand a word, or rather understands the words but cannot make anything of them. Sweat begins to pearl at her eyebrows, her heart beats faster. She mutters): uhhhhh....I dunno...really...I just have a blue card.
IKEA Cashier (out of her mind): Honey, I don't care if your card is blue, red or yellow. I just want to know if you want to pay credit or debit. OK?!?!?
I am sure that just like Sandra, you now need a few words of explanation.
French people have a much simpler relationship with means of payment; we have of course old hard cash, checks and cards. ONE TYPE OF CARD that we use to withdraw money from the ATM (or distributeur automatique) AND pay for whatever we buy, wherever we buy it. It can be Visa or Mastercard (aren't we an advanced civilization. FYI the electronic chip on cards - a basic security feature - is a French invention. So please shut up and let me go on with my story); but back in the days everybody had a carte bleue or blue card; most people still refer to their debit card as 'blue card' (which is indeed very often blue, as in the color. Just sayin'.)
Hence her reply.
The question for her didn't make any sense. There is one and only one way to pay with your card, and you really insist on names that would be 'debit'. You hand your card, the machine takes your money right there and now (or at least in the amount of time it takes to process the transaction) and you are done. No question asked; no hassle; no existential crisis.
Plus - you don't even have to decide between plastic or paper. French supermarkets are remarkably sweet and understanding towards their stressed out, tired and grumpy customers.
So the first trip to the grocery store comes as a surprise to most Frenchies, totally oblivious of the wicked and tortuous ways of the American financial system.
I still remember mine. Since I was by myself and didn't want to be spotted as a newbie who didn't know anything about the world, I chose blindly: 'debit', I said. That was easy: I had been told my whole life (at night time along with my prayers) that credit was a bad thing for you. The mere utterance of the word was enough to keep me away from it- and for quite a while.
So imagine my surprise when one day, someone took the time to sit down with me to try and explain that here, in Uncle Sam's country, the country of freedom, opportunity, big cars and gigantic candy bars, credit was actually something to pursue. You NEED credit. If you want to buy a car, a house or anything of importance you need to be able to show off a good credit history in order to get a better rate. In short, you need to show that you are able to successfully manage preexistent debts in order to be allowed to get more in debt.
Implacable logic.
I was lost.
It took me years and a banker-boyfriend to really understand what that was all about. But even now I still cannot believe that you can build a viable economy on such a flawed system. I guess that the last year or so has proved its limits but it hasn't shaken it to its roots. Credit is still desirable and sought after. I, for one, carry five credit cards. I keep my balances to a minimum, pay them on time and therefore has a credit score labeled as 'good'. I am still not quite sure of what it entails at the end of the day, and I am fine with it.
One day, when I am American - I'll get it.
This little wonder of a statement wasn't uttered by a CEO of a major financial institution; nope - Chase is not even to blame for that one. Surprising, I know.
Believe it or not (and you American citizens may all know this valuable piece of information; in that case I do apologize most sincerely; I really don't want to waste your time: I heard it's money too) the author of the quote is one of the Founding Fathers of America, the beloved and awfully hair-styled, the one and only Benjamin Franklin.
He had to be some kind of visionary, or was struck by genius or something (living in such close proximity to thunder had to have some side effects, right?). Had he known that his future countrymen would so blindly follow his lead, he would have thought twice about what he was saying. Or twirl his tongue in his mouth seven times (French exercise recommended by grandmas and political advisers all over the board before you start talking. Exhausting but effective.)
So let me tell you a little bit about my experience with credit. No long financial talk (I would be totally incapable and most of all, unwilling to do so) and no miserable stories (not yet at least), just a few anecdotes to share...no worries.
Meet Sandra, former colleague of mine. On her first trip to IKEA (the mandatory thing to do when you arrive in a new city, especially in Chicago where you have the luxury of choice: Northern or Western suburbs? It determines your whole future so please pick carefully) she found herself confronted to a riddle. Something so big and incomprehensible that she was at loss for words (which didn't seem to happen very often according to the people who knew her much better than me. I believe them.)
The scene takes place at the check-out line; it's time to pay. Sandra opens her wallet to get her card.
IKEA Cashier: Credit or Debit?
Sandra: ...............
IKEA Cashier (slightly annoyed): Credit or Debit?
Sandra (looks at Mireille, her driver and co-shopper for the day, for help. She doesn't understand a word, or rather understands the words but cannot make anything of them. Sweat begins to pearl at her eyebrows, her heart beats faster. She mutters): uhhhhh....I dunno...really...I just have a blue card.
IKEA Cashier (out of her mind): Honey, I don't care if your card is blue, red or yellow. I just want to know if you want to pay credit or debit. OK?!?!?
I am sure that just like Sandra, you now need a few words of explanation.
French people have a much simpler relationship with means of payment; we have of course old hard cash, checks and cards. ONE TYPE OF CARD that we use to withdraw money from the ATM (or distributeur automatique) AND pay for whatever we buy, wherever we buy it. It can be Visa or Mastercard (aren't we an advanced civilization. FYI the electronic chip on cards - a basic security feature - is a French invention. So please shut up and let me go on with my story); but back in the days everybody had a carte bleue or blue card; most people still refer to their debit card as 'blue card' (which is indeed very often blue, as in the color. Just sayin'.)
Hence her reply.
The question for her didn't make any sense. There is one and only one way to pay with your card, and you really insist on names that would be 'debit'. You hand your card, the machine takes your money right there and now (or at least in the amount of time it takes to process the transaction) and you are done. No question asked; no hassle; no existential crisis.
Plus - you don't even have to decide between plastic or paper. French supermarkets are remarkably sweet and understanding towards their stressed out, tired and grumpy customers.
So the first trip to the grocery store comes as a surprise to most Frenchies, totally oblivious of the wicked and tortuous ways of the American financial system.
I still remember mine. Since I was by myself and didn't want to be spotted as a newbie who didn't know anything about the world, I chose blindly: 'debit', I said. That was easy: I had been told my whole life (at night time along with my prayers) that credit was a bad thing for you. The mere utterance of the word was enough to keep me away from it- and for quite a while.
So imagine my surprise when one day, someone took the time to sit down with me to try and explain that here, in Uncle Sam's country, the country of freedom, opportunity, big cars and gigantic candy bars, credit was actually something to pursue. You NEED credit. If you want to buy a car, a house or anything of importance you need to be able to show off a good credit history in order to get a better rate. In short, you need to show that you are able to successfully manage preexistent debts in order to be allowed to get more in debt.
Implacable logic.
I was lost.
It took me years and a banker-boyfriend to really understand what that was all about. But even now I still cannot believe that you can build a viable economy on such a flawed system. I guess that the last year or so has proved its limits but it hasn't shaken it to its roots. Credit is still desirable and sought after. I, for one, carry five credit cards. I keep my balances to a minimum, pay them on time and therefore has a credit score labeled as 'good'. I am still not quite sure of what it entails at the end of the day, and I am fine with it.
One day, when I am American - I'll get it.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Big is beautiful? or The Misadventures of a French Gal in the US
"French Women Don't Get Fat"
Even though it annoys the hell out of me every time I walk into a Borders and see the long-legged, scarved fashionista being dragged by her caniche (that would be a poodle, the world's most disgusting dog. Please don't ask me why, and don't be offended) on the cover of the book, I have always been damn curious about it. And yet, for some reason - never even laid my hands on it.
Because it's a lie. A patent one.
Yes, Mireille Guiliano (who dares sharing the same first name that my bestie) I claim it high and loud: you are simply NOT telling the truth.
And thee should be ashamed of thee self.
Now that I am writing this blog entry I actually opened another window with the culprit's website. She is thin (duh!), sports a bob haircut à la Mireille Darc (Google her) and is obviously loaded. Former CEO of Clicquot, Inc. and spokesperson of the prestigious Champagne Veuve Clicquot for more than 20 years she is married to the president of the New York Institute of Technology. Not exactly the girl next door but who pretends none-the-less that she can help any woman out there.
Already sounds terribly flawed as a line of argumentation. At least to me.
So interested anyway (even if slightly annoyed) I click on "Read an excerpt". It's the book introduction, of course. The two-page spiel that is supposed to get you hooked and dying to buy the next 200 hundred or so in order to gain a little Frenchness that is apparently such a hot commodity on this side of the Atlantic (yes, it is. Think of all the French-labeled things out there...French dressing? French cut green beans? French vanilla? French fries? and so on. None of them are French, by the way. Sorry to be a killjoy.)
Our fabulous friend begins by talking about the infamous 'French paradox' (one eats like a pig and remains the size of a chick) and goes on by talking about her fabulous life and how the poor little thing she is is 'required to eat in restaurants about three hundred times a year' for twenty years, 'always a glass of wine or Champagne at [her] side'. Tough life indeed; I can immediately relate to her and so do you, right?
But then she says something that attracts my attention; she mentions, drama-queen way, that she 'suffered a catastrophe that [she] was totally unprepared for: a twenty pound catastrophe'.
OK, so now you are talking.......
And, sure enough, the end of the world happened when she was an exchange student in the US.
Here we are.
My personal 'catastrophe' is of such epic proportion that our delicate and sophisticate author could probably not stomach it: in the 8 years I lived over here I gained something close to 40 pounds. Typing this number is almost a surreal experience; even with the size 2 pants deeply buried in my closet I cannot imagine that I used to be so much lighter. I do feel a little bit bloated and uncomfortable in my skin but do not consider myself as overweight. I believe I have a womanly figure, rather on the plump side, sure, but you know, nothing out of hand.
The scary thing is - at 118 pounds I still thought the same.
That would be MY French paradox.
Thinking back on it I really cannot believe it. It's even hard for me to remember how I truly looked like. It's almost like thinking about another person. But every so often I come across a picture, a former dress or bra and then I grasp the extent of my 'transformation'. But - weirdly enough - never when I look in the mirror.
Why?!?!?!?
I thought about this matter many times, because whether you like it or not it's what women do. I wondered what it was about my gain weight that made it so easy to live with. And honestly - it's a rather difficult question. As a French woman in France I always ate a lot. I was known for my appetite, my solide coup de fourchette as we like to say; I was never one to quibble with my food. And I never exercised. EVER. After leaving high school and mandatory gym classes I never practiced any sport. Never ran. Never even pushed the doors of a gym*.
And yet I apparently had this model figure that I never appreciated. I never realized that my body was slim, fit and inside the limited boundaries of 'beauty standards'.
Sucks, huh?!?!?
When I first came to the US I was still feeling awkwardly self-conscious of my shape(s). But I quickly found out that others found it attractive. I had never been so courted in my life. I slowly started feeling good about myself, and show more of my body. It became a source of pride and pleasure and I often associate my first year in Connecticut with my birth as a true woman.
It felt exhilarating.
But it didn't last that long. After two years in Chicago, and meeting this RH guy who was to become my husband, I started piling on the pounds. And didn't stop. My mom - who was herself traumatized in her youth by nasty comments on her weight - even told me that I was getting fat. She was shocked. And so was I.
I do eat a lot, still. But I am trying to compensate my love for food (and booze, which I have to say is a new component of the whole puzzle) by - horror!!! - going to the gym on a very regular basis. I ran two 5K this year, and am planning on getting ready for a half-marathon next Fall. I lift weights, do crunches, squats and curls. Even push-ups. A good little soldier, not at all a proper French lady who is supposed to magically keep her figure, 'without a sweat'.
But I still cannot keep the damn kilos away.
So is it the aging, the bad influence of my American companion, the lack of hormonal balance, the products of a wicked food industry that adds corn syrup to everything and anything or the effect of climate change?!? Maybe my ways have just become sluggish, and wheels too often replace my once strong and powerful legs... I am not really sure, and it doesn't really matter. Today I am wearing tweed shorts and sexy tights, and I feel good about myself. Probably the most important feeling in the world.
And I closed down the Mireille window, deciding to forgive her for her lies and keep going my ways.
Thanks anyway.
________________________
* I have to say here that this is not entirely true; I used to swim quite often and almost daily when I was writing my master's thesis in 2000. Doing backstroke for an hour or so was my way of relaxing and trying to put my ideas in order; something bout the breathing.... This discipline helped me to write my 100+ pages in three months, get my degree with honors and be published in academic journals. Not bad I guess.
Even though it annoys the hell out of me every time I walk into a Borders and see the long-legged, scarved fashionista being dragged by her caniche (that would be a poodle, the world's most disgusting dog. Please don't ask me why, and don't be offended) on the cover of the book, I have always been damn curious about it. And yet, for some reason - never even laid my hands on it.
Because it's a lie. A patent one.
Yes, Mireille Guiliano (who dares sharing the same first name that my bestie) I claim it high and loud: you are simply NOT telling the truth.
And thee should be ashamed of thee self.
Now that I am writing this blog entry I actually opened another window with the culprit's website. She is thin (duh!), sports a bob haircut à la Mireille Darc (Google her) and is obviously loaded. Former CEO of Clicquot, Inc. and spokesperson of the prestigious Champagne Veuve Clicquot for more than 20 years she is married to the president of the New York Institute of Technology. Not exactly the girl next door but who pretends none-the-less that she can help any woman out there.
Already sounds terribly flawed as a line of argumentation. At least to me.
So interested anyway (even if slightly annoyed) I click on "Read an excerpt". It's the book introduction, of course. The two-page spiel that is supposed to get you hooked and dying to buy the next 200 hundred or so in order to gain a little Frenchness that is apparently such a hot commodity on this side of the Atlantic (yes, it is. Think of all the French-labeled things out there...French dressing? French cut green beans? French vanilla? French fries? and so on. None of them are French, by the way. Sorry to be a killjoy.)
Our fabulous friend begins by talking about the infamous 'French paradox' (one eats like a pig and remains the size of a chick) and goes on by talking about her fabulous life and how the poor little thing she is is 'required to eat in restaurants about three hundred times a year' for twenty years, 'always a glass of wine or Champagne at [her] side'. Tough life indeed; I can immediately relate to her and so do you, right?
But then she says something that attracts my attention; she mentions, drama-queen way, that she 'suffered a catastrophe that [she] was totally unprepared for: a twenty pound catastrophe'.
OK, so now you are talking.......
And, sure enough, the end of the world happened when she was an exchange student in the US.
Here we are.
My personal 'catastrophe' is of such epic proportion that our delicate and sophisticate author could probably not stomach it: in the 8 years I lived over here I gained something close to 40 pounds. Typing this number is almost a surreal experience; even with the size 2 pants deeply buried in my closet I cannot imagine that I used to be so much lighter. I do feel a little bit bloated and uncomfortable in my skin but do not consider myself as overweight. I believe I have a womanly figure, rather on the plump side, sure, but you know, nothing out of hand.
The scary thing is - at 118 pounds I still thought the same.
That would be MY French paradox.
Thinking back on it I really cannot believe it. It's even hard for me to remember how I truly looked like. It's almost like thinking about another person. But every so often I come across a picture, a former dress or bra and then I grasp the extent of my 'transformation'. But - weirdly enough - never when I look in the mirror.
Why?!?!?!?
I thought about this matter many times, because whether you like it or not it's what women do. I wondered what it was about my gain weight that made it so easy to live with. And honestly - it's a rather difficult question. As a French woman in France I always ate a lot. I was known for my appetite, my solide coup de fourchette as we like to say; I was never one to quibble with my food. And I never exercised. EVER. After leaving high school and mandatory gym classes I never practiced any sport. Never ran. Never even pushed the doors of a gym*.
And yet I apparently had this model figure that I never appreciated. I never realized that my body was slim, fit and inside the limited boundaries of 'beauty standards'.
Sucks, huh?!?!?
When I first came to the US I was still feeling awkwardly self-conscious of my shape(s). But I quickly found out that others found it attractive. I had never been so courted in my life. I slowly started feeling good about myself, and show more of my body. It became a source of pride and pleasure and I often associate my first year in Connecticut with my birth as a true woman.
It felt exhilarating.
But it didn't last that long. After two years in Chicago, and meeting this RH guy who was to become my husband, I started piling on the pounds. And didn't stop. My mom - who was herself traumatized in her youth by nasty comments on her weight - even told me that I was getting fat. She was shocked. And so was I.
I do eat a lot, still. But I am trying to compensate my love for food (and booze, which I have to say is a new component of the whole puzzle) by - horror!!! - going to the gym on a very regular basis. I ran two 5K this year, and am planning on getting ready for a half-marathon next Fall. I lift weights, do crunches, squats and curls. Even push-ups. A good little soldier, not at all a proper French lady who is supposed to magically keep her figure, 'without a sweat'.
But I still cannot keep the damn kilos away.
So is it the aging, the bad influence of my American companion, the lack of hormonal balance, the products of a wicked food industry that adds corn syrup to everything and anything or the effect of climate change?!? Maybe my ways have just become sluggish, and wheels too often replace my once strong and powerful legs... I am not really sure, and it doesn't really matter. Today I am wearing tweed shorts and sexy tights, and I feel good about myself. Probably the most important feeling in the world.
And I closed down the Mireille window, deciding to forgive her for her lies and keep going my ways.
Thanks anyway.
________________________
* I have to say here that this is not entirely true; I used to swim quite often and almost daily when I was writing my master's thesis in 2000. Doing backstroke for an hour or so was my way of relaxing and trying to put my ideas in order; something bout the breathing.... This discipline helped me to write my 100+ pages in three months, get my degree with honors and be published in academic journals. Not bad I guess.
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