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.
We spent New Year's in Perpignan, where it got up to 18 C (65 F)
Friday, 12 September 2008
Thursday, 7 August 2008
Blesséd Monday
This is perhaps the first time in my life I am eagerly awaiting Monday's arrival. Monday will fly from France and touch down at 18:20, it will take a train and another train and then a bus and then it will come through the door and give us a big hug. We can't wait for Monday.
(Papa found us a flat and is coming home!)
(Papa found us a flat and is coming home!)
"That's what they mean by the credit crunch."
Monday we had some bad news. The buyer can't afford the deposit required by the lender, as their lender increased the equity requirements (I heard it was above 20% now). So the buyer is trying to remortgage their current property to get the extra cash. We don't know how long that will take. The buyer has not been returning the estate agent's phone calls.
When I spoke to Doreen at the estate agent's today, she said, "This is what they mean by the credit crunch. It means the deposits get bigger. And then people can't come up with it, so the market slows down." Oh. I see. So this is how a macro economic trend can become a very real pain in the neck for little people like me.
We are a little worried. We wonder if we are making a huge mistake. Hubbie is feeling low and lonely out there alone. I am feeling tired and starting to warm to the idea of renting the flat rather than selling it. And if we go down that route, there is so much to be done to figure out how much we would have to rent it for in order to at least break even. The letting agents would charge 13% for managing the rent and property, the government would tax us as it's unearned income, we would need contents insurance, we would need to switch to interest-only payments rather than repaying the mortgage (£77), we would need to pay a £225 admin fee to the mortgage provider to apply to change our flat to a rented property. The costs add up, and I am not sure anyone would want to pay that much to rent our flat.
And did I mention I was logitically challenged?
So we need to trust God more than ever. I feel the quite natural impulse to rush around saving our plans to move, saving our savings, saving us. It would be a lie if I said I was trusting in the sovereignty of God right now. I am doubting now that he ever wanted us to move. We speak of seeing signs and confirmations from God as if we could know him in that way, his detailed thoughts and desires for our lives. We did that when we had an offer, we did that when we found a good Protestant church in the town we want to move to. But we never really know, do we? All we as believers can truly cling to is the fact he loves us and wants what's best for us, and in the end, in the very end of all things, it will all be made right. In the end this glitch in the market and glitch in our life plans will be put into its place, put into an eternal perspective. It's just a bit of a struggle doing that just now.
When I spoke to Doreen at the estate agent's today, she said, "This is what they mean by the credit crunch. It means the deposits get bigger. And then people can't come up with it, so the market slows down." Oh. I see. So this is how a macro economic trend can become a very real pain in the neck for little people like me.
We are a little worried. We wonder if we are making a huge mistake. Hubbie is feeling low and lonely out there alone. I am feeling tired and starting to warm to the idea of renting the flat rather than selling it. And if we go down that route, there is so much to be done to figure out how much we would have to rent it for in order to at least break even. The letting agents would charge 13% for managing the rent and property, the government would tax us as it's unearned income, we would need contents insurance, we would need to switch to interest-only payments rather than repaying the mortgage (£77), we would need to pay a £225 admin fee to the mortgage provider to apply to change our flat to a rented property. The costs add up, and I am not sure anyone would want to pay that much to rent our flat.
And did I mention I was logitically challenged?
So we need to trust God more than ever. I feel the quite natural impulse to rush around saving our plans to move, saving our savings, saving us. It would be a lie if I said I was trusting in the sovereignty of God right now. I am doubting now that he ever wanted us to move. We speak of seeing signs and confirmations from God as if we could know him in that way, his detailed thoughts and desires for our lives. We did that when we had an offer, we did that when we found a good Protestant church in the town we want to move to. But we never really know, do we? All we as believers can truly cling to is the fact he loves us and wants what's best for us, and in the end, in the very end of all things, it will all be made right. In the end this glitch in the market and glitch in our life plans will be put into its place, put into an eternal perspective. It's just a bit of a struggle doing that just now.
Saturday, 2 August 2008
Papa
Hubbie left today for the south of France, to find us a flat. We parked the car and walked up the stairs to the station. We waited 10 minutes for the next train. I cried a little because I knew how much I would miss him. My 15-month-old son doesn't understand departures really; he just observed the trains with interest. He did not wave goodbye as he watched his Papa disappear behind the train doors, and he did not understand why I ran after the train a little ways with him in my arms.
An hour later in the park, he looked up at the spot on the bridge where his Papa often pokes his head out to play peekaboo with him. "Papa," he said, pointing his chubby finger and squinting into the fading sunlight. I wanted to cry. Hopefully it won't take too long to find a flat, and Papa will be back soon.
An hour later in the park, he looked up at the spot on the bridge where his Papa often pokes his head out to play peekaboo with him. "Papa," he said, pointing his chubby finger and squinting into the fading sunlight. I wanted to cry. Hopefully it won't take too long to find a flat, and Papa will be back soon.
Tuesday, 29 July 2008
Prioritisation: It's Now or Never!
Well, it's already the end of July. Needless to say I am appalled at how long it has been since I last blogged. But as I sound like a broken record, I will skip that apologetic refrain and just dive in...
One of the biggest lessons I have come away with from this relocation so far is the fact that I am fearful of details. Not just details, but of practical details. Let me explain. Hubbie and I had a heart-to-heart because he has been making me very nervous. I told him, "You are making me feel very nervous, because you keep telling me in bits and bobs what I need to do, something new every night, or that I haven't done, or have not even thought of." He said, "I don't want to make you feel nervous. But I think I am nervous because you are making me nervous." This was because, he had said in not so many words, I was solely responsible for all the remaining logistics for our last month in this country. Hubbie will be in France for two weeks starting this Saturday to find us a flat, and then when he gets back we will only have one more week left to sort everything out. He found this prospect frightening because he caught me out on several occasions doing something way down the "priority list". For instance, I was on hold with the French consulate for 30+ minutes (ahhh, French bureaucracy) trying to change an appointment, when the priority had clearly been to send some documents to the solicitor so that the exchange would happen on time. As soon as Hubbie had pointed it out, I knew I had procrastinated subconsciously somehow. But why? What had happened to my priorities? I feel like I never get them right. I can plan and plan and plan, but somehow I always end up doing things in the wrong order.
I think my growth in this area was seriously stunted at the age of 5, when I did not finish the diary I was supposed to keep for summer vacation, and my mother did it for me the night before I started the first grade.
It may have been reinforced by the reports I used to throw together at the last minute and for which I still got A's.
It may have been further reinforced by the fact my primary weapon in battling my father was my strength of stubbornness in restating a general fact over and over with greater and greater passion, until he gave up and I thought I had won the argument.
It was shown to be a far-reaching problem in college (university), when I often ran out of time to read the text that the course was based on, and on a couple of occasions forgot to study for final exams.
It was further aggravated when I married someone who was pretty good at organising himself. And further still when I worked for someone who was meticulous about following up on my tasks. It drove me nuts.
And now it has come to a head. If I remain vague and wishy washy in this move, I will end up forgetting something huge. Like a bed. Or my son. I need to change. I need to CHANGE. I NEED to change.
So we started a list of priorities, complete with estimated completion dates for each task and Green/Orange/Red codes for how things are progressing. I feel like I am in the army. But I suppose this is what it takes to break a bad habit.
One of the biggest lessons I have come away with from this relocation so far is the fact that I am fearful of details. Not just details, but of practical details. Let me explain. Hubbie and I had a heart-to-heart because he has been making me very nervous. I told him, "You are making me feel very nervous, because you keep telling me in bits and bobs what I need to do, something new every night, or that I haven't done, or have not even thought of." He said, "I don't want to make you feel nervous. But I think I am nervous because you are making me nervous." This was because, he had said in not so many words, I was solely responsible for all the remaining logistics for our last month in this country. Hubbie will be in France for two weeks starting this Saturday to find us a flat, and then when he gets back we will only have one more week left to sort everything out. He found this prospect frightening because he caught me out on several occasions doing something way down the "priority list". For instance, I was on hold with the French consulate for 30+ minutes (ahhh, French bureaucracy) trying to change an appointment, when the priority had clearly been to send some documents to the solicitor so that the exchange would happen on time. As soon as Hubbie had pointed it out, I knew I had procrastinated subconsciously somehow. But why? What had happened to my priorities? I feel like I never get them right. I can plan and plan and plan, but somehow I always end up doing things in the wrong order.
I think my growth in this area was seriously stunted at the age of 5, when I did not finish the diary I was supposed to keep for summer vacation, and my mother did it for me the night before I started the first grade.
It may have been reinforced by the reports I used to throw together at the last minute and for which I still got A's.
It may have been further reinforced by the fact my primary weapon in battling my father was my strength of stubbornness in restating a general fact over and over with greater and greater passion, until he gave up and I thought I had won the argument.
It was shown to be a far-reaching problem in college (university), when I often ran out of time to read the text that the course was based on, and on a couple of occasions forgot to study for final exams.
It was further aggravated when I married someone who was pretty good at organising himself. And further still when I worked for someone who was meticulous about following up on my tasks. It drove me nuts.
And now it has come to a head. If I remain vague and wishy washy in this move, I will end up forgetting something huge. Like a bed. Or my son. I need to change. I need to CHANGE. I NEED to change.
So we started a list of priorities, complete with estimated completion dates for each task and Green/Orange/Red codes for how things are progressing. I feel like I am in the army. But I suppose this is what it takes to break a bad habit.
Wednesday, 2 July 2008
Holidaying in the South of France
We're into the second week of our 3-week holiday in the South of France. Yes, you Americans, that is pretty long. It's even long to us.
We spent last week with my brother and his family, who came all the way from Boston to Perpignan to be with us. They spent a week touring Italy and then hopped a plane to Marseilles and drove the rest of the way. Seeing them again for the first time in 3 years was a real blessing. They had never met our one-year-old in the flesh, except of course over Skype. Our little L got to know his two cousins, who are now 5 (Z) and 7 (J), and by the end of their stay, he was regularly giving them cuddles at random moments (exiting a carpark; entering McDonalds; etc). J and Z were such good sports. When we were otherwise occupied, they followed L around like little sentries and made funny faces at him to keep him from crying.
A peaceful, uneventful week? Not quite. The worst of it came when my brother and his wife took a day off to Barcelona, leaving Z & J with us, and my brother was outmanoeuvred by the Tire Slash Robbery Gang and lost his and J's passports. To get J a new passport, Hubbie and Papie had to drive him the 2 hours to Barcelona to make a physical appearance at the US consulate. My poor brother lost all his photos of Italy (which he took great pride in) and my sister-in-law thought this might be the last holiday she would ever have abroad (my brother was very upset by the robbery).
That same day, L came down with another nasty bug that kept his temperature up around the 40-degree mark for 4 days. It kept him up at night. That meant it kept us up at night. It didn't help that it was constantly higher than 30 degrees every day he was ill (that's close to 90 degrees Fahrenheit).
Hubbie insisted it was just teething again (as L had a very high temperature when his botton teeth appeared). But we finally called a doctor, who immediately came around to the house (a real perk of the French health system) and prescribed antibiotics for some sort of throat bug. L is feeling much better now though he still has a slight fever.
So although we are now in the South of France eating nice food and drinking nice wine, it is not such a big change for me, as I still chase after L all day and still do not seem able to blog or write much at all...
Oh and good news in case someone out there is following the Flat Sale. We have had confirmation that the buyer officially has their mortgage in place! Woohooooo! We are on our way!
We spent last week with my brother and his family, who came all the way from Boston to Perpignan to be with us. They spent a week touring Italy and then hopped a plane to Marseilles and drove the rest of the way. Seeing them again for the first time in 3 years was a real blessing. They had never met our one-year-old in the flesh, except of course over Skype. Our little L got to know his two cousins, who are now 5 (Z) and 7 (J), and by the end of their stay, he was regularly giving them cuddles at random moments (exiting a carpark; entering McDonalds; etc). J and Z were such good sports. When we were otherwise occupied, they followed L around like little sentries and made funny faces at him to keep him from crying.
A peaceful, uneventful week? Not quite. The worst of it came when my brother and his wife took a day off to Barcelona, leaving Z & J with us, and my brother was outmanoeuvred by the Tire Slash Robbery Gang and lost his and J's passports. To get J a new passport, Hubbie and Papie had to drive him the 2 hours to Barcelona to make a physical appearance at the US consulate. My poor brother lost all his photos of Italy (which he took great pride in) and my sister-in-law thought this might be the last holiday she would ever have abroad (my brother was very upset by the robbery).
That same day, L came down with another nasty bug that kept his temperature up around the 40-degree mark for 4 days. It kept him up at night. That meant it kept us up at night. It didn't help that it was constantly higher than 30 degrees every day he was ill (that's close to 90 degrees Fahrenheit).
Hubbie insisted it was just teething again (as L had a very high temperature when his botton teeth appeared). But we finally called a doctor, who immediately came around to the house (a real perk of the French health system) and prescribed antibiotics for some sort of throat bug. L is feeling much better now though he still has a slight fever.
So although we are now in the South of France eating nice food and drinking nice wine, it is not such a big change for me, as I still chase after L all day and still do not seem able to blog or write much at all...
Oh and good news in case someone out there is following the Flat Sale. We have had confirmation that the buyer officially has their mortgage in place! Woohooooo! We are on our way!
Thursday, 19 June 2008
Thé-eine
I can't sleep again. This time it's not because of stress but because of a cup of tea I had at 2 PM. Hard to believe one little cup of tea can do this much damage. I met a friend and we sat down in a Sainsbury café, so it wasn't high tea or anything fancy. The tea hadn't even been that good. It's about 1 AM and my legs feel like running down the street and across the Channel. Restless leg syndrome, my foot. It's what the French call "thé-eine." Or at least that's what my sister-in-law calls it. Kind of cute, isn't it? (If you didn't catch the similarity to "caffeine," don't worry, I didn't at first either).
It is sad that my blogs tend to be in the middle of the night. I try to keep my blog up-to-date, but it usually falls by the wayside. Partly because Certain People insist it is a waste of time. Certain People think I should spend every waking moment studying French.
Honestly, though, given the circumstance I think this is a great way to use my time. I am dead tired but I can't sleep. How better can my foggy head and bloodshot eyes be put to use? Let me count the ways. Watching tv - specifically, championship poker; a repeat of the evening news; or movies that are so old I can count the pixels in the picture? Uhmmmm.... I will stop there... it hurts trying to think of what else to do.
In fact, it has made me feel rather sleepy...
Oh, before I go, I should at least update you on our lives. Just on the off chance someone out there wants to know how the sale of our flat is going, we are still waiting for the buyer to get their mortgage linged up. It seems the lady who has made the offer is haggling with her mortgage provider, trying to get a better deal. I didn't think that was possible in these market conditions? Anyone think she's trying to pull a fast one? Anyhoo, we are waiting. While we are waiting for that, I am also waiting for our estate agent's useless "conveyancing broker" to send some forms through so that we can know who our solicitor is, fill out the forms and ensure whoever they are can act on our behalf to move this sale forward while we are away on our 3-week holiday (that's in about 30 hours' time). I put "conveyancing broker" in quotes because I am not sure what it is they actually do besides charge me a fee to hook me up with a conveyancer (aka solicitor, for you non-British folk). The more I think about it, the more I feel had. Stupid and had. Why did I go with our estate agent's "conveyancing broker"? Because I thought it would make things more efficient if everything was in-house. Little did I know they would just turn around and pick any old solicitor anyway. I feel so had.
Now my blood pressure has risen a few notches, so I am going to turn back to my non-practical, completely pointless ramblings which seemed to be making me sleepy.
In fact, I can think of nothing more to say, and trying to think of something to say has made me sleepy...
It is sad that my blogs tend to be in the middle of the night. I try to keep my blog up-to-date, but it usually falls by the wayside. Partly because Certain People insist it is a waste of time. Certain People think I should spend every waking moment studying French.
Honestly, though, given the circumstance I think this is a great way to use my time. I am dead tired but I can't sleep. How better can my foggy head and bloodshot eyes be put to use? Let me count the ways. Watching tv - specifically, championship poker; a repeat of the evening news; or movies that are so old I can count the pixels in the picture? Uhmmmm.... I will stop there... it hurts trying to think of what else to do.
In fact, it has made me feel rather sleepy...
Oh, before I go, I should at least update you on our lives. Just on the off chance someone out there wants to know how the sale of our flat is going, we are still waiting for the buyer to get their mortgage linged up. It seems the lady who has made the offer is haggling with her mortgage provider, trying to get a better deal. I didn't think that was possible in these market conditions? Anyone think she's trying to pull a fast one? Anyhoo, we are waiting. While we are waiting for that, I am also waiting for our estate agent's useless "conveyancing broker" to send some forms through so that we can know who our solicitor is, fill out the forms and ensure whoever they are can act on our behalf to move this sale forward while we are away on our 3-week holiday (that's in about 30 hours' time). I put "conveyancing broker" in quotes because I am not sure what it is they actually do besides charge me a fee to hook me up with a conveyancer (aka solicitor, for you non-British folk). The more I think about it, the more I feel had. Stupid and had. Why did I go with our estate agent's "conveyancing broker"? Because I thought it would make things more efficient if everything was in-house. Little did I know they would just turn around and pick any old solicitor anyway. I feel so had.
Now my blood pressure has risen a few notches, so I am going to turn back to my non-practical, completely pointless ramblings which seemed to be making me sleepy.
In fact, I can think of nothing more to say, and trying to think of something to say has made me sleepy...
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