The wrong side of the tracks

From our living room window on the sixth floor, the windswept sky, a municipal sanitation warehouse and a freight train station take up most of our view. A long nondescript building which I assume functions as train storage or for fixing old trains, runs right to left and seems to divide the multiple lines of rail into two halves. At night, when the fog rolls in and the dim streetlights puncture the dark, we can sometimes see a pair of headlights raking the streets, someone undoubtedly in search of the type of female company that's for sale. Not far from the train tracks is a settlement of people who live on the streets, called in French, SDF (sans domicile-fixe). Many of these SDF, generally the ones who choose to live rough, have large scary dogs who look hungry enough to eat you if you pass too closely. It's said the SDF keep these dogs to deter police arrest, on account of a law stating a dog must be caught and cared for if its owner is arrested. I generally don't have an opinion about the homeless keeping dogs, except when I step in what they so generously leave behind on the pavements.

People tell me this town isn't what it used to be, that it's seen much better days and no one seems to care about it anymore. Now it is a haven for the SDF and other not-so-desirables. To me, it still has a beauty and a history asking to be explored...

Was yesterday 2008 or 2007?

I have never been a good time keeper. Deadlines, seasons and appointments either stress me out to no end or catch me off guard. As a native southern Californian, I grew up taking the seasons for granted. It was always warm, except for the mornings when a jacket would suffice. Living in New York came as a shock to say the least, with its freezing winters and summers so hot, the tires on my inline skates melted on the asphalt. I wasn't too successful in London either, though it should have been easier as it was winter all year round.

Living in France and being part of a French family seem to be helping me reform. The French are forcing me to be more in tune with time. Here, people like being constrained by time, seasons, etc. They know when different fruits, vegetables, cheeses and seafoods are in season. They look forward to eating the next season's harvest. I tried shopping for figs out of season, and it was not possible to find them because no one has imported fruit and veg. (There is produce from other EU states and countries under French possession, but that doesn't count.) No one was making a fuss about this, although in London there are always certain fruit and veg because everything is imported, and people would certainly kick up a stink about not having figs at their local Tesco.

The French keep such a rigorous watch on the time of day, as well. In my husband's family, they consider it impossible to have lunch if it does not start before 2 PM. As a result, they think eating breakfast anytime after 10 AM will spoil your lunch.

We rung in the new year last night with the family. We had a reveillon that lasted until 1:30 AM, starting with a raw oyster starter, a plate of escargots, a trou normand (apple sorbet with Calvados), a filet steak with dauphinoise potatoes, fromage and salad, and finally, dessert. Before the feast, we actually had a family discussion about what time aperitifs should be served in order for us to be finished around midnight. During the meal, my mother-in-law kept the time on her wristwatch so that we wouldn't miss the countdown to midnight.

I thought this was normal until I realised even when we hosted New Year's Eve dinners, we did not make a conscious effort to make it to midnight. It was rather nice to find we were 10 minutes to midnight when we had cleaned off our last bite of dinner!

In years past, I often made resolutions to improve my time management skills. Perhaps this year I can be more informed in my resolution-making, thanks to my French family:

• I resolve to eat seasonally, to plan in advance for birthdays, holidays and special occasions, and to maintain regular contact with those I care about.
• I will try to busy my hands when it's light outside, to feel tired when it's dark.
• I will try to wear a watch at all times.
• I will try to use my organizer regularly.

We got a job!

Yes, you read right! I mentioned Hubbie's third interview the last time I blogged. Well it was followed by a quick fourth, and yesterday he signed the contract to become an official employee at the consultancy firm. Hooray! We are so grateful and amazed. We can hardly express our joy. Yesterday when we drove to the supermarket, we gazed out at the streets with new eyes and we wanted to throw our arms around the buildings and the people in the rain. We kept yelling, "Woohoooooo! We are here to stay!" and scaring the daylights out of our son.

It's been such a long haul. I was already preparing myself for leaving this friendly town for cold, distant Paris. I thought about what we've been through, and how all of it served to grow us more in our faith. I have learned so much about what it means to trust in the sovereignty of God -- how tough it is to trust in real difficulty, and how easy it is to give it lip-service when life is easy. Not that we've had it that hard, but it was hard enough for us! The beginning was the worst by far, when Hubbie applied for dozens of jobs and never heard from anyone. I think the biggest lesson for us was the realization we had been in a type of spiritual complancency in our well-oiled church in London. We have learned so much about what it means to be truly a part of the church, by attending a church still in its infancy and investing in people more than we ever had before. Many lessons have been learned... and all would have comforted me if we had had to go to Paris.

But we are so very, very happy to be able to stay.

All this has given us an exceptional buildup to Christmas. I don't think we have ever so looked forward to celebrating the birth of Jesus with the family. Today we got out of the apartment and did some Christmas shopping. Had it not been for Hubbie feeling ill, we probably would have spent far too much money. Surely another stroke of providence! Tonight it's like Hubbie has finally allowed himself to exhale after so many months of stressful job hunting. His body called in its debt with a 39.6 C (103.3 F) temperature an hour ago. Now he is literally stretched out on the sofa, snoring. God, bless him.

One Last Try

Hubbie had a third-round interview with a consultancy firm today. As expected, the firm didn't have a project to put him on right away, so they claimed they would only be able to offer him a job in early January. We will wait, like we have before, for this hope to become reality and for the job to materialise... but we have decided that if it does not happen by the 5th Jan, we will start looking for work in Paris.

Paris is not so bad, with its grandes rues, cafés, museums and large ex-pat community. I mean, it is one of the most beautiful cities in the world. But to us, it's just another big city containing big city people and offering a big city (speedy) lifestyle. We have never felt drawn to live in Paris. Where we live now, people strike up conversations with neighbours, with mail carriers, with people in the metro, anywhere, anytime. I often chat with moms in the playground, even with my limited franςais. I love that gift of gab most French have and their willingness to use it. When we were in Paris in October, we went to a playground, and our 17-month old son fell flat on his back after being intimidated by a bigger kid. The kid's mom was on her cellular phone the whole time, vaguely watching us. She didn't say a word to me. She did not offer an apologetic look. She did not even look me in the eye. That, to me, symbolised the general feel of being Parisian.

If Paris is where we are meant to be, then that is where we will end up. It will make me sad to leave this place. We've made some friends through the church we attend here, and had hoped we could stick around to serve in this congregation. Being older now, our son will probably notice the change of environment and it would probably affect him more than our move from London. We hope it won't cause behavioural problems or problems sleeping! The stress of moving again may cause me to have behavioural problems.

Of course, there are a few churches we know of that we could serve in in Paris or in the suburbs. That may well be where God wants us to be. We will wait and see.

A glimmer of hope

Monday, Hubbie had an interview at a consultancy firm and it went very well. The director of the company met with him and told him he has valuable experience (even if it's in a different sector) and wants him to come back for a second round. It's such good news. And such a boost of confidence for Hubbie. We are hoping and praying the second round will go well. However, with the economy the way it is, the director pointed out he might not have any projects until January. So there are a few things that need to fall into place before we start celebrating.

Thanks so much to everyone who prayed for Hubbie's interview Monday. God heard you. :)

More good news arrived on Wednesday. I got a part-time job teaching English at an international language institute. It won't pay much, but it takes some pressure off of us. I may try to get another part-time job over the holidays, depending on whether the language institute expects a slow month (December usually is).

I'm also trying to get back into freelance writing. I don't have much news on that front but will let you know if anything ever gets published!

Lastly, our 18-month old son L is quickly becoming a terrible two. Oh no!!! He says NO to everything we ask him, even if he means yes. For instance: "Do you want to faire dodo (go to sleep)?"; "Nooooo"; "Do you want more cheese?"; "NOOOOO"; "What do you want to do?"; "DODO." When he is being playful, he often head-butts his poor Papa to the point that today, he thought L had given him a black eye. L recently turned his deceptively innocent Winnie-the-Pooh-mobile into a toe-smashing machine. If we punish him, he whines loudly, and as he finds that effective in eliciting a response from us, has notched up the volume this week. I think it's safe to say, L has a strong character and often tests the boundaries. I suppose he will soon start to find his poo fascinating, and it may end up on the walls if we're not careful.

That said, we love him very much and find things to coo over almost daily. He loves people watching at the playground and often strikes up "conversations" through incomprehensible sounds that resemble speech, complete with hand gestures. One parent asked me, "Is he speaking in English?" I shrugged and held up my hands. Whatever the language, it seems to work. Just today he charmed a little girl 2 years his senior to give him a chocolate wafer. That's what I call a Frenchman.

Weirrrrd

I don't know why, but sometimes when I type my blog URL into the URL thing, I get routed to an online Bible College, in embarrassingly garish colours. I can guarantee you I have nothing to do with that. Not sure why this happens, but I hope none of you have this problem.

Swimming and Begging

Went swimming for the first time in ages last week. It's been a long time since I've been in a 50-metre pool, and I was breathless after one lap. This one was in the massive Leo Lagrange sports centre, which, like almost everything, is only a 15-minute walk away. It is amazing how many activities are offered there, in addition to normal sports, there are courses for Capoeira, yoga, tai-chi, african dance, an art studio, a comic book studio, theatre etc.. A real change from London, where the nearest pool to us was closed for over a year and a half because it sprung a leak.

So I went back today, expecting to feel a little stronger and maybe actually do some sets. I was excited to swim again after only 5 days. It was the closest to "regular" I've been in the last 2 years. I knew it would be a real shock to the system after so long, but a far cry from the double morning and afternoon workouts of club and college swimming. I got to the front door and there were several people waiting around. It turned out the pool hadn't opened at the published hour and was opening 30 minutes later.

How French, I thought. Maybe people felt like taking an extra long lunch, as if the enforced one-and-a-half hour lunches weren't long enough!

Eventually, the ticket window opened and everyone gathered round. Not in a neat queue (line) like they would do in England, but amorphous, unorganised, more .... French. :) I got to the window and there were a number of people behind me. I was extremely conscious of that fact because I had many small coins in my pockets and would have to count them out when paying. And I am talking about a lot of 1 and 2-centimes coins. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks as I counted them out at the window.

Then the woman at the window stopped. "Il vous manque 5 centimes."

My jaw dropped. My knees must have buckled. But it took me only a second to decide to turn SDF (homeless French) and beg for it. I turned around to the people behind me with the best puppy eyes I could manage. "Excusez-moi, avez vous 5 centimes pour donner?" (Am I begging? With bad French? Yes, I am. I want to swim! Look at me, I really need to swim!)

Two female students behind me stopped talking and stared at me. I was officially embarrassing everyone around me. Then the man behind them said, "Regardez!" and he stooped down to pick up a copper coin on the floor. How providential! Was it salvation in the form of a 5-centimes?

"Ah, c'est 1-centime," said the nice man, shrugging. He handed it to the lady at the window.

I thanked him and looked back at the people. The French people. I would have sung them the Marseillaise. "Est-ce que quelqu'un a 4-centimes?" I asked.

I felt about as large as an ant. Did I ask the right question? Was it grammatically wrong and impossible to understand? I wanted to tell them all how much it meant to me to swim again, how lovely their pool was, how bereft of good pools London is, how the chlorine beckoned, how my arteries were now probably nearly clogged with butter and bearnaise sauce and this might be the last chance to blast them clean with some sport.

The same nice man smiled and dug in his pockets and extracted a 2-centimes. I thanked him again. He seemed to dig in another pocket. I am not sure. Then miraculously, he placed in front of the window another 2-centimes. "Merci! Merci beaucoup!" I smiled with all 32 of my American teeth. I wanted to cry and hug the little man. But instead, I muttered, "Desolé" to the woman at the window, who scowled at me. (Who would want a begger in the pool? If she has no money, does she ever bathe? Or does she use the pool, our pool, to bathe?)

It was okay if I was a social leper. I got in. I was in. I was going to swim. Thank you, France, for letting me swim.