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.

Still jobless

It's been little over two months now that we've been here. We are both still jobless, and while our savings cushion is still there, it's been depleted somewhat this past month with two family birthdays, the wedding of a close friend and several long car trips (petrol + tolls = a lot). We've looked at what we could cut back on, but there really isn't anything frivolous we can cut out. If I were alone I'd eat rice and beans for a couple weeks like I did in NY when my bank balance dipped to $100 and I was unemployed. But it's not possible with a family.

Obviously the answer is for one of both of us to get a job. Hubbie's recently been informed, in this town, one simply can't find a job the normal way, it has to be done through networking. So besides rewriting his CV and participating in a six-week skills assessment, Hubbie has started cold-calling people. The aim is not to get a job from the contact, but to develop rapport with the person and see if they have advice or other contacts to give. Which may or may not lead to a job. So needless to say, it could take a while. I've started looking for work as an English teacher/tutor, as even earning the SMIC (minimum wage) would be helpful. We figure if Hubbie doesn't see any progress by mid-Nov (at latest), we will start looking in Paris. Then it will probably mean the same line of work we had in London.

As a result of being neither here nor there, I have found it hard to commit to anything. That translates into having a lack of motivation in every area of life, except maybe cleaning and doing laundry. One lovely surprise: a French-American family going to the same church as us, with a son the same age as ours. They've been here for two years with Agape, a ministry to university students. The husband is French, transplanted in the States two decades ago, where he met his American wife. She's got her hands full with their three kids and ministry, but still managed to invite me over for lunch twice and made me feel more at home here in our uncertain situation, than I ever did in London. Maybe it's because she's a Southern Californian, or because her son is so close in age and disposition to mine. Maybe it's because she an American married to a French, and trying to come to grips with French culture, like me. Probably all of the above. It's providence to have her here, to be able to share American things like Cheerios, breakfast burritos and references to bag ladies. I haven't felt this American since I left in 2001. Above all of course, is the fact we have in common an identity in Christ. She's family.

Well that's a brief recap of the last two months. I wanted this blog to be more entertaining, but I am so bad at emailing friends that it usually ends up being a lengthy update akin to a list. I shall endeavour to write more frequently so I can tell you more about the day-to-day. If only I could write about life like Seinfeld episodes. I remember one where it was all about whether Seinfeld had picked his nose or not ("It wasn't a pick!"). Classic. I may be less gross, but we'll get there.

France at last...

It's been a month of ups and downs. Heres and theres. Farewells, bonjours. Closure, commencement. In our last month in London we were scurrying around until the very last moment we left. It was mind-numbing work to get everything done at the right time. It did all eventually fall into place (and that does not include the sale of the flat; however we have finally found a tenant, or at least a deposit from a tenant).

Now that we've physically made it here I have to watch myself or else I slip into holiday-mode. It has been at least 30 degrees celsius (86 F) every day since we got here, except today, but the sun still manages to come out and dry our clothes. In our sixth floor apartment we have a constant breeze and little street noise given the amount of traffic below. The Canal du Midi runs down the middle of the busy street, and Hubbie regularly jogs along its tree-lined banks. The farmers' market in the neighbouring quarter overflows with stalls of sweet peaches, juicy nectarines, immense cauliflower and courgettes, types of tomato I've never seen before, potatoes of all shapes, sizes and colour. The butcher and baker are just down the road and they always seem to want a chat (though I can't be sure, with my limited French). The building where we live is maintained and supervised by the omnipresent Jean-Marc, who put our surname on the postbox within two weeks of our being here. And we're only tenants! All these little details make me want to giggle like an idiot. I just find myself smiling sometimes, at nothing. Saying 'Bonjour' to every living thing coming towards me. I am in love with this town and this lifestyle. Is there anything wrong with that?

Well ... reality ... must ... eventually ... sink ... in.

One thing that made me realise we were not on holiday was when we queued up three hours at La Préfecture just to get a form. I embarrassed my husband with my immature display of raw self-righteous indignified anger. I raged against the machine, but no one heard me. No one understood me. They closed their ears. No one cared to sympathise. Someone even cut in front of us! And I was the only one who gave a toss! (Yes, in my 6 years in England I did learn how to queue, thank you.) When I confronted the person, I think I said "cue" instead of "queue", which could have been embarrassing in another way. After our brief encounter she cut in further up the line. That'll teach her. My husband instructively pointed out the statement "C'est la vie" may have originated from dealing with the French administration.

Well, my son just woke up screaming, so I need to go tend to him. A small dose of reality injected into my holiday blog.