Dealing with French immigration is enough to make you want to pack up and move back to your own country. Perhaps this is there subversive intent when creating their nightmarish bureaucratic obstacle courses.
My wife and I have spent the past two months in Raleigh for my work, as I have mentioned previously. We aren't living there permanently, I am simply there on assignment to directly support one of my development teams. However, we still have to keep up all of our French legal paperwork, VISAs being chief among them.
As such we have recently returned to Paris, mid-assignment, strictly to deal with the renewal process of our VISAs. This is an important detail to attend to as it means we can continue to collect income and see our things we keep here when desired.
That said, jumping timezones is never easy, and this trip has been no exception. We are pretty badly jet lagged and not sleeping normal hours. This means that yesterday ,before going to our VISA renewal meeting, we awoke at 2am. Two in the morning is never a good time to wake up at, it's awkward, dark and disorienting.
We proceed to our meeting as scheduled at 9am. We were lucky enough to have our HR contact from work meet us there to help make sure everything goes smoothly given our lack of French language skills. She has instructed us on all the paperwork we need to bring and we have done our due diligence and come prepared.
Having never done this before we don't know what to expect. Our last encounter with Immigration Services (OFII) was in the form of a medical examination, 3 or 4 months previous, where they took x-rays of our lungs. This was an unusual but fairly efficient process, which kicked off with specific appointment periods. This detail, the once about appointment times, may not sound like something worth mentioning, but I assure you it is.
Fast forward to yesterday, we arrive and meet our HR contact our front of a different OFII office than the one for our medical exam. A line half a kilometer long, of which we are at the back of, is prominent. I wonder why the ling is so long, and why everyone is so anxious. As it turns out, there are no appointments allowed for this process. It is a first come, first served process with no guarantee of even being assigned a "ticket" (which allows you to meet with an immigration official and do your business). It is apparently very common for the tickets to run out and for people to be turned away only to return the next day and begin again.
We do not have the luxury of simply coming back should the tickets run out, as we have plane tickets waiting to shuttle us back to North Carolina once this work is sorted out. As I stand at the back of this very long and very slow line on a frigid October morning, things do not look good. Yet, even then I cannot begin to imagine how poorly the day was going to unfold.
The line continues at a snail's pace, and the three of us stood silently on the concrete. Each of us secretly assumed this would be an annoyance, but an annoyance that would be wrapped up in time to get a bite to eat for lunch.
Our first annoyance came in the form of the man in line behind us. A man who came from a country with absolutely no concept of personal space. At first it was strange that he would stand close, then after a while it became funny. It lost it's humor shortly after, and were it not for a complete language barrier between us it would have likely devolved into shouting and, likely, blows.
The line picked up it's pace and we suddenly found ourselves mercifully hustling into the immigration building itself and out of the chill autumn wind. Almost as quickly as the pace increased it came to a near halt. Where moments before we covered 10 meters in a minute, we were instead taking little more than a step every few minutes.
Minutes turned into hours and lunch began to pass us by. It was at this point, given our new interior position, that we were able to see that most of the immigration officials closed their windows and went to lunch, leaving only 2 or 3 our of the 20 windows open. The hundreds of people still standing with us in line were left with little recourse but to stand and wait.
Mr. "No Personal Space" continued to press himself against anyone within arms reach. I stood between Aja, my HR contact and him and created a wall so he could not harass them directly. He would occasionally manufacture a reason to leave the line and return a short time later, inevitably attempting to stand between myself and the women I was with.
This continued to the very moment we finally made it to the front of the line. At one point I looked down, then pointed out to Aja to look at my right foot. Beside it was his right foot. Not nearby, not right behind: BESIDE it, like two right shoes in a window display of a shoe store.
Think about how close you would need to stand behind someone to accomplish this. Now, for extra credit, go line up somewhere like the bank or the grocery store and perform this maneuver. I dare you. Why do I dare you? because it's likely you live in a country where you speak the language as everyone else, and you know you, at best will get told off loudly for it. I however did not have that ability, and did not want to drag my HR representative into translating a shouting match and/or fist fight. (**Note: for those of you who know me, you would likely know that I am not one who is quick to anger, let alone violence. But my unwanted ability to measure this guy's inseam with my buttocks was WAY more stress than I needed on a day like that. I almost hit him a number of times)
The line continues to crawl along, and never seems to fully recover from the lunch break. At 3:30 we finally make it to the front of the line, a scant 6+ hours later. We speak with the man behind the glass and discover that the process for renewals has changed, and all our paperwork must now be mailed in, along with a few forms he provided us with.
30 seconds after having walked up to our window we were dispatched with the realization that we had stood in line for nearly an entire working day to pick up forms that COULD have been provided via the internet or snail mail if anyone had bothered to think things through.
It turns out that our physical presence in this matter was completely unwarranted, much like the heavy petting and 6 hours in line. In fact, we will have to mail away all of our paperwork, wait for a reply by mail, then return to Paris once again to submit these new forms at a new location.
I can only assume that this new location will also fail to provide basic organization like previously scheduled appointment time.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Foreign Familiarity
I'm back in Paris after a couple months living in the USA. Despite being gone for a while, it is nice to experience a degree of familiarity upon my return.
Of course it helps that we continue to maintain our apartment in the suburbs, so coming home is literally like coming home. But beyond that there is still a degree of familiarity here in Paris that I do not associate with my US accommodations, despite the similarities in people in culture.
We have been living in Paris for about 8 months before we left for the states, and it has been a mixed bag of experiences. I love the age and culture in the city. I love the amazing things I have seen, but in that time we have yet to really develop a real sense of belonging.
It is one thing to feel familiar and comfortable, but it is entiely another to feel as though you belong. My work goes a long way to creating that sense for me, since it gives me daily direction and a built in community among my co-workers. The same cannot be said for Aja, who has suffered far more from the isolation.
We are only back in Paris for a few days to do various VISA/Immigration paperwork, then we return to the states for a few more months. We will change up our clothes, sleep in a comfortable bed, then hop back on a plane before we have managed to shake off the jet lag.
Before coming I had a phone conference with my boss and we discussed what comes next for me, as my contract expires in the next couple months. The conversation was framed poorly, due to the language barrier, and I felt it was a "should we renew your contract" discussion. This gave me trepidation going into the conversation, but it was short lived once it was made clear that it was more of a discussion around the options we have when renewing it.
Long story short, I opted to take a 6 month extention to my current contract type, which has a lot more legal flexibility under French law regarding changing positions or locations within the company.
I love my job, it is unlike any I have had before, but I know that no matter how great it is, if it does not serve to benefit both myself and Aja, it must be re-examined. The extension buys us the time we need to complete my mission in the US and return to Paris and really ask ourselves if this is where we want to be.
Paris is wonderful, but maybe it is just not somewhere wonderful for us. This time in the states helps give contrast, and really find out if our issues are ones with Paris, or just living abroad in general.
Of course it helps that we continue to maintain our apartment in the suburbs, so coming home is literally like coming home. But beyond that there is still a degree of familiarity here in Paris that I do not associate with my US accommodations, despite the similarities in people in culture.
We have been living in Paris for about 8 months before we left for the states, and it has been a mixed bag of experiences. I love the age and culture in the city. I love the amazing things I have seen, but in that time we have yet to really develop a real sense of belonging.
It is one thing to feel familiar and comfortable, but it is entiely another to feel as though you belong. My work goes a long way to creating that sense for me, since it gives me daily direction and a built in community among my co-workers. The same cannot be said for Aja, who has suffered far more from the isolation.
We are only back in Paris for a few days to do various VISA/Immigration paperwork, then we return to the states for a few more months. We will change up our clothes, sleep in a comfortable bed, then hop back on a plane before we have managed to shake off the jet lag.
Before coming I had a phone conference with my boss and we discussed what comes next for me, as my contract expires in the next couple months. The conversation was framed poorly, due to the language barrier, and I felt it was a "should we renew your contract" discussion. This gave me trepidation going into the conversation, but it was short lived once it was made clear that it was more of a discussion around the options we have when renewing it.
Long story short, I opted to take a 6 month extention to my current contract type, which has a lot more legal flexibility under French law regarding changing positions or locations within the company.
I love my job, it is unlike any I have had before, but I know that no matter how great it is, if it does not serve to benefit both myself and Aja, it must be re-examined. The extension buys us the time we need to complete my mission in the US and return to Paris and really ask ourselves if this is where we want to be.
Paris is wonderful, but maybe it is just not somewhere wonderful for us. This time in the states helps give contrast, and really find out if our issues are ones with Paris, or just living abroad in general.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Where's France?
I'm currently living in North Carolina at a the moment. I enjoy it here, the people are warm and welcoming. However, there are moments that I am reminded how unaware some in this country are towards the rest of the world.
Take for example a recent trip to the grocery store. We loaded up on all sorts of things, since we will be here for a long time, and ended up with more than we could carry home (since we don't drive). We called a taxi to shuttle our many bags back home and he arrived in his own time.
Like most taxi drivers he felt compelled to make small talk on the ride home. As he picked us up I mentioned that I was not familiar with the the roads to take home as we had just moved to the area (simpler than telling him that I was only here on a long term, but temporary assignment). With this tidbit of info he asked where we were from, to which I replied simply 'France'.
There was a noticeable pause on his part before he responded. His response was a confounding 'oh, where's that?'.
Normally I'm fairly quick witted, but I wasn't sure how best to respond to s inquiry. I shot back 'Well, in Europe. You know, England... France'.
Again another pause on the part of the driver before he perked up and said 'Oh! England!'. He proceed to ask me about England, and I didn't bother to attempt to redirect him.
It's certainly not the first time these sorts of conversations have taken place while I've been here, I've had many like it on previous trips, but it's always a little mind blowing when they happen.
Take for example a recent trip to the grocery store. We loaded up on all sorts of things, since we will be here for a long time, and ended up with more than we could carry home (since we don't drive). We called a taxi to shuttle our many bags back home and he arrived in his own time.
Like most taxi drivers he felt compelled to make small talk on the ride home. As he picked us up I mentioned that I was not familiar with the the roads to take home as we had just moved to the area (simpler than telling him that I was only here on a long term, but temporary assignment). With this tidbit of info he asked where we were from, to which I replied simply 'France'.
There was a noticeable pause on his part before he responded. His response was a confounding 'oh, where's that?'.
Normally I'm fairly quick witted, but I wasn't sure how best to respond to s inquiry. I shot back 'Well, in Europe. You know, England... France'.
Again another pause on the part of the driver before he perked up and said 'Oh! England!'. He proceed to ask me about England, and I didn't bother to attempt to redirect him.
It's certainly not the first time these sorts of conversations have taken place while I've been here, I've had many like it on previous trips, but it's always a little mind blowing when they happen.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Living Abroad... Abroad.
I am on vacation, and have been for the past two weeks, but that comes to an end on Monday and I head back to the office. However, once I get back to the office, the office is going to move halfway around the world for a couple months.
For the next couple months I will be living abroad... in the US. I will be on assignment, working on-site with one of the American teams I oversee. I'm looking forward to it, since they are a great group.
There isn't much more to say than that, just thought I'd let you know my days will be a whole lot less French for a while.
For the next couple months I will be living abroad... in the US. I will be on assignment, working on-site with one of the American teams I oversee. I'm looking forward to it, since they are a great group.
There isn't much more to say than that, just thought I'd let you know my days will be a whole lot less French for a while.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
A Turning Point
Sometimes, as I wander the streets of Paris or find myself handling prototypes years away from public knowledge, I wonder just how it is that I have arrived at such a wonderful point in my life. I can think of many things along the way that have helped foster my deep love for gaming, and ultimately put me in this career...
A beautiful girl I grew up with, to whom I had a huge crush on for years, who loved gaming.
A socially awkward childhood that lent itself well to the escapism gaming offered.
A serious injury that left me with little to do but play games for a long recovery period.
A lifelong affinity for technology.
All of these things certainly contributed in varying degrees, but quite often I come back to what my be the defining moment, the initial catalyst that kicked it all off. A moment I recently described to a new friend, and felt that it is a moment I would like to share with the rest of you as well.
During my 3rd grade year, when I was seven, my grandfather (whom, for all intents and purposes is my father, which is another story) entered me into a bicycle safety competition, which when you think about it is strange event in and of itself (does competing against other kids really encourage safety?). The goal of the event was to motivate kids of all ages to be more active, but also to educate them on the rules of the road when riding their bikes.
The event was held in a hockey arena, without the ice thankfully, and they had a number of challenges laid out on the cement floor in white tape. Some where mocked up to resembled traffic intersections and scenarios, while others were straightforward agility and skills challenges.
I loved my bike at that age, since I had been late to learn how to ride it, I appreciated it all the more. I flew through the challenges, and some days later was told that I had placed second in the entire city. They brought me to an office one night to receive a prize, which turned out to be an alarm clock (not exciting prize for a 3rd grader), and to ask me if I would like to compete in another round against all the other kids who had won in different cities across the province. The following weekend I was doing the same thing in the provincial capital.
Like the first time, the results had to be tabulated, so no one would no who won for a few days. I didn't think much of it, since I wasn't in need of another alarm clock, and went back to my daily 3rd grader routine. A few days later though, that routine took a sharp, and unexpected left turn.
One afternoon, while in the middle of our math lesson, two uniformed policemen arrived at our classroom unannounced. The teacher was visibly surprised, and they asked sharply if "James is present today". At the time, there were four kids in my class named James, three of whom used different names for ease of reference by the teacher: I was going by Jamie. We all sheepishly raised out hands while the rest of the class all ominously murmured that "Ohhhhh" sound that kids make when they know trouble is coming, like when you are called to the principle's office.
The officers, a little annoyed at the copious amount of James' in the class then asked "James Mouat?". The other three boys lowered their hands and the murmur from the class grew exponentially. The teacher set about settling the class and the policemen announced, slowly, that because of something I had done that they had come to see me today. In retrospect it seems clear now that they were playing to the crowd, but i'll be damned if it didn't work; the kids ate it up and ignored the teachers attempts to bring silence.
At this point, I suspect that I am going to jail or something even more terrible, and I don't even know why! After a pregnant pause in their speech, laid on for dramatic effect, they reveal that I had placed first in the entire province for the bicycle competition, and as such they were here to deliver my prize: a brand new NES videogame system, which one officer produced by learning out of the classroom door and retrieving it from it's hiding place in the hallway. At this point in my life was this akin to winning the lottery, in more ways than one.
Two things happened simultaneously at that moment: One, a huge rush of relief mixed with euphoria washed over me, and Two, the entire class lost their collective mind. Even my teacher, who was a an evil spawn of the devil on her best days, was uncharacteristically happy. The class was screaming, yelling and cheering at the top of their lungs as I ran up to the front of the room to claim my prize.
Remembering back to the days and months that followed this moment, I see the deep irony in the chosen award. Without a doubt it set me on my path to becoming a designer, as I took to gaming in a deep and important way, far beyond simply being entertained. The irony though came in my the form of my poor neglected bicycle. Practically overnight it went from my constant companion to a lump of rubber and steel that I passed by going to and from school each day.
I don't think I rode my bike for at least 3 months after that day. I suspect that this wasn't the outcome that the organizers of a contest meant to promote safety and physical activity had intended.
I look back on that moment as one of those moment that shaped my life, and is in large part responsible for why I know live in Paris and have a job that I love. Sure, I had been exposed to games before this, I had even had my own computer since the first grade (I learned Basic in the second grade), but until that moment it really hadn't been important to me.
Crazy huh?
A beautiful girl I grew up with, to whom I had a huge crush on for years, who loved gaming.
A socially awkward childhood that lent itself well to the escapism gaming offered.
A serious injury that left me with little to do but play games for a long recovery period.
A lifelong affinity for technology.
All of these things certainly contributed in varying degrees, but quite often I come back to what my be the defining moment, the initial catalyst that kicked it all off. A moment I recently described to a new friend, and felt that it is a moment I would like to share with the rest of you as well.
During my 3rd grade year, when I was seven, my grandfather (whom, for all intents and purposes is my father, which is another story) entered me into a bicycle safety competition, which when you think about it is strange event in and of itself (does competing against other kids really encourage safety?). The goal of the event was to motivate kids of all ages to be more active, but also to educate them on the rules of the road when riding their bikes.
The event was held in a hockey arena, without the ice thankfully, and they had a number of challenges laid out on the cement floor in white tape. Some where mocked up to resembled traffic intersections and scenarios, while others were straightforward agility and skills challenges.
I loved my bike at that age, since I had been late to learn how to ride it, I appreciated it all the more. I flew through the challenges, and some days later was told that I had placed second in the entire city. They brought me to an office one night to receive a prize, which turned out to be an alarm clock (not exciting prize for a 3rd grader), and to ask me if I would like to compete in another round against all the other kids who had won in different cities across the province. The following weekend I was doing the same thing in the provincial capital.
Like the first time, the results had to be tabulated, so no one would no who won for a few days. I didn't think much of it, since I wasn't in need of another alarm clock, and went back to my daily 3rd grader routine. A few days later though, that routine took a sharp, and unexpected left turn.
One afternoon, while in the middle of our math lesson, two uniformed policemen arrived at our classroom unannounced. The teacher was visibly surprised, and they asked sharply if "James is present today". At the time, there were four kids in my class named James, three of whom used different names for ease of reference by the teacher: I was going by Jamie. We all sheepishly raised out hands while the rest of the class all ominously murmured that "Ohhhhh" sound that kids make when they know trouble is coming, like when you are called to the principle's office.
The officers, a little annoyed at the copious amount of James' in the class then asked "James Mouat?". The other three boys lowered their hands and the murmur from the class grew exponentially. The teacher set about settling the class and the policemen announced, slowly, that because of something I had done that they had come to see me today. In retrospect it seems clear now that they were playing to the crowd, but i'll be damned if it didn't work; the kids ate it up and ignored the teachers attempts to bring silence.
At this point, I suspect that I am going to jail or something even more terrible, and I don't even know why! After a pregnant pause in their speech, laid on for dramatic effect, they reveal that I had placed first in the entire province for the bicycle competition, and as such they were here to deliver my prize: a brand new NES videogame system, which one officer produced by learning out of the classroom door and retrieving it from it's hiding place in the hallway. At this point in my life was this akin to winning the lottery, in more ways than one.
 |
| Welcome to winning the 3rd grade popularity contest! |
Two things happened simultaneously at that moment: One, a huge rush of relief mixed with euphoria washed over me, and Two, the entire class lost their collective mind. Even my teacher, who was a an evil spawn of the devil on her best days, was uncharacteristically happy. The class was screaming, yelling and cheering at the top of their lungs as I ran up to the front of the room to claim my prize.
Remembering back to the days and months that followed this moment, I see the deep irony in the chosen award. Without a doubt it set me on my path to becoming a designer, as I took to gaming in a deep and important way, far beyond simply being entertained. The irony though came in my the form of my poor neglected bicycle. Practically overnight it went from my constant companion to a lump of rubber and steel that I passed by going to and from school each day.
I don't think I rode my bike for at least 3 months after that day. I suspect that this wasn't the outcome that the organizers of a contest meant to promote safety and physical activity had intended.
I look back on that moment as one of those moment that shaped my life, and is in large part responsible for why I know live in Paris and have a job that I love. Sure, I had been exposed to games before this, I had even had my own computer since the first grade (I learned Basic in the second grade), but until that moment it really hadn't been important to me.
Crazy huh?
Monday, June 27, 2011
The Heat
For large chunks of this past spring, the weather here in Paris was leaving a lot to be desired. Lots of rain and heavy, gray cloud cover. However, I am happy to report that Summer is here with meteorological vengeance on it's mind. As evidence, today hit 37 degrees (that's 98 for my American friends) and made me glad for my A/C's office!
I was lucky enough to take advantage of this over the weekend, with lovely, meandering outings on both days, with Aja and Jen (a fantastic new Expat friend of ours). On Saturday we headed over to St. Joseph's Church in the 8th for a book sale fundraiser. St. Joseph's is an Anglophone ministry, so all the books on sale were of the English variety, and for the scant price of €5 per bag of books.
For those of you who know me, you will already have determined that I was not there for the books, as I am not an avid reader (to say the least). It was however a great excuse for me to explore the city with camera in hand. Of course, it never hurts to have company/victims to take photos of on such explorations either.
While shooting the ladies as they explored the stacks of paperbacks, I was approached first by a crazy lady insistant that I do not stake her picture. I explained I wouldn't and she wandered back to the books. Shortly after I was then approached by one of the fundraiser's organizers. I figured I knew what was coming, the typical "please don't take pictures here" line (assuming the crazy lady went and 'told on me'), but was rather surprised to find that she was in fact looking for my services.
After a short exchange, I agreed to take a few shots of the fundraiser for them, free of charge, and provided them with my card. I then set about quickly trying to grab a few telling shorts of the event, which was by then in the dying minutes and the crowds, along with the books, had disappeared in droves.
I managed to grab a few representative shots, and with a little luck they were of value to the church. I passed along my regards along with the photos and suggested that in future, if they need a photographer, or know of someone who does, to let me know! Here's to hoping I can parley a little goodwill into some work.
After the book sale we headed to an urban art exhibit, which was taking place throughout a neighborhood not far from my home. The first piece we came across, run by a small man dressed in a set of red overalls and equally red rimmed shades, was interactive in nature.
The goal of his installation, he explained in enthusiastic and well meaning English, was to discover secret messages hidden within and under a jumble of text. To do so however required special equipment, Red Glasses:
Aja was the first to search for the messages with the specially crafted spectacles, with help from the artist. Upon uncovering the messages though, she told him "But they are all in French"... to which he showed an astounding mixture of embarrassment and excitement. Realizing that the secrets of the exhibit would be lost on us, he instructed us to the next stage, to take a red marker and add our contribution to the exhibit, in whatever form we wanted.
We ended up being distracted by a monumental cemetery and not seeing many more of the events. We walked for a few hours among the ancient crypts and graves, and tired ourselves out for the day. Returning home to a feast of bread, wine and cheeses.
On sunday we took the opportunity to wander the Seine river and hang out in Luxembourg Gardens, dangling our feet in the iconic reflecting pool, as children played with toy boats and . The weather was gorgeous, and the city turned inside out, both local and tourist alike, to soak up the long awaited sunshine. All in all, I have to say that this city is absolutely magnificent, and despite the troubles I may have had with it as of late, it has redeemed itself in a single, sun-drenched weekend.
I was lucky enough to take advantage of this over the weekend, with lovely, meandering outings on both days, with Aja and Jen (a fantastic new Expat friend of ours). On Saturday we headed over to St. Joseph's Church in the 8th for a book sale fundraiser. St. Joseph's is an Anglophone ministry, so all the books on sale were of the English variety, and for the scant price of €5 per bag of books.
For those of you who know me, you will already have determined that I was not there for the books, as I am not an avid reader (to say the least). It was however a great excuse for me to explore the city with camera in hand. Of course, it never hurts to have company/victims to take photos of on such explorations either.
While shooting the ladies as they explored the stacks of paperbacks, I was approached first by a crazy lady insistant that I do not stake her picture. I explained I wouldn't and she wandered back to the books. Shortly after I was then approached by one of the fundraiser's organizers. I figured I knew what was coming, the typical "please don't take pictures here" line (assuming the crazy lady went and 'told on me'), but was rather surprised to find that she was in fact looking for my services.
After a short exchange, I agreed to take a few shots of the fundraiser for them, free of charge, and provided them with my card. I then set about quickly trying to grab a few telling shorts of the event, which was by then in the dying minutes and the crowds, along with the books, had disappeared in droves.
I managed to grab a few representative shots, and with a little luck they were of value to the church. I passed along my regards along with the photos and suggested that in future, if they need a photographer, or know of someone who does, to let me know! Here's to hoping I can parley a little goodwill into some work.
After the book sale we headed to an urban art exhibit, which was taking place throughout a neighborhood not far from my home. The first piece we came across, run by a small man dressed in a set of red overalls and equally red rimmed shades, was interactive in nature.
The goal of his installation, he explained in enthusiastic and well meaning English, was to discover secret messages hidden within and under a jumble of text. To do so however required special equipment, Red Glasses:
Aja was the first to search for the messages with the specially crafted spectacles, with help from the artist. Upon uncovering the messages though, she told him "But they are all in French"... to which he showed an astounding mixture of embarrassment and excitement. Realizing that the secrets of the exhibit would be lost on us, he instructed us to the next stage, to take a red marker and add our contribution to the exhibit, in whatever form we wanted.
We ended up being distracted by a monumental cemetery and not seeing many more of the events. We walked for a few hours among the ancient crypts and graves, and tired ourselves out for the day. Returning home to a feast of bread, wine and cheeses.
On sunday we took the opportunity to wander the Seine river and hang out in Luxembourg Gardens, dangling our feet in the iconic reflecting pool, as children played with toy boats and . The weather was gorgeous, and the city turned inside out, both local and tourist alike, to soak up the long awaited sunshine. All in all, I have to say that this city is absolutely magnificent, and despite the troubles I may have had with it as of late, it has redeemed itself in a single, sun-drenched weekend.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
American Airlines: Quality! ;)
I travel a fair bit now, all in the name of work, which puts my in airports and airplanes a LOT more often than I used to be. As such, I've begun developing my own personal tastes when it comes to my travel comforts and which airlines I feel offer better services and flights.
Near the bottom of my list is one of the airlines I find myself on fairly regularly: American Airlines. They don't offer any frills, and I suppose their price reflects that. However on my most recent cross-Atlantic flight I was greeted with an even less enjoyable visual reminder of the discount nature of the airline:
Right from the moment we got on the plane we were greeted with the sight of a broken hatch, complete with emergency oxygen masks dangling down. You know, like the ones in the incessant (and vaguely insulting) safety speeches, the ones you should don first before helping others should the cabin lose pressure.
Everyone gets on the plane, finds their seats, stows their baggage and gets settled in. The flight attendants do their best impersonation of clinically blind people and completely ignore the presence of the somewhat disturbing masks dangling out for all to see.
After about an hour into the flight, a couple flight attendants finally decide that "Hmmm, maybe we should try to put these masks out of sight, as it looks bad on us, our competance and our companies ability to maintain the vehicle everyone is currently being suspended 30,000 feet in the air within", and proceed to tape it up, using an gross amount of tape in the least effective method possible:
Their efforts are wasted, as the hatch (with the assistance of turbulence and gravity) pops open a few hours before landing. Content not to care, they never bother to attempt repair it again. Rather, they leave it to hang, with tape in tow, and occasionally joke with each other about it when they pass each other in it's proximity.
One can only hope that their engine and fuselage mechanics are more diligent.
Near the bottom of my list is one of the airlines I find myself on fairly regularly: American Airlines. They don't offer any frills, and I suppose their price reflects that. However on my most recent cross-Atlantic flight I was greeted with an even less enjoyable visual reminder of the discount nature of the airline:
Right from the moment we got on the plane we were greeted with the sight of a broken hatch, complete with emergency oxygen masks dangling down. You know, like the ones in the incessant (and vaguely insulting) safety speeches, the ones you should don first before helping others should the cabin lose pressure.
Everyone gets on the plane, finds their seats, stows their baggage and gets settled in. The flight attendants do their best impersonation of clinically blind people and completely ignore the presence of the somewhat disturbing masks dangling out for all to see.
After about an hour into the flight, a couple flight attendants finally decide that "Hmmm, maybe we should try to put these masks out of sight, as it looks bad on us, our competance and our companies ability to maintain the vehicle everyone is currently being suspended 30,000 feet in the air within", and proceed to tape it up, using an gross amount of tape in the least effective method possible:
Their efforts are wasted, as the hatch (with the assistance of turbulence and gravity) pops open a few hours before landing. Content not to care, they never bother to attempt repair it again. Rather, they leave it to hang, with tape in tow, and occasionally joke with each other about it when they pass each other in it's proximity.
One can only hope that their engine and fuselage mechanics are more diligent.
Friday, June 10, 2011
The Wall - Le Mur
As most people who know me, or have dealt with me for any serious amount of time will tell you, I am a very patient person with most things. There are exceptions, I am human after all, but I always strive towards being infinitely patient with my troubles, my friends and my colleagues. It keeps my blood pressure in a good place.
Combined this patience with a natural, single-minded determination to see things through and it combines to create a personality that gets things done and produces results. I rarely give up in frustration, I rarely "rage quit" on my projects, and I rarely push things away as "not worth the effort".
So, those few times where I reach a breaking point, it's usually after a significant period of time, pressure and repeated, soul-crushing failure. And it's happened only a couple times in my life. I've created a respectable and successful career by force of will after dropping out of highschool. I've taught myself to walk again after shattering and rebuild a section of my spinal column. I've rarely hit "The Wall". When push comes to shove, I always shove back harder.
So, when it took only a morning of being laughed at by French-speaking people (not with, at), I was surprised to find myself up against that wall. It could be argued that this was the culmination of a French related frustrations over the past year and a half that has lead to this point... but that argument isn't important here.
Why were French-speaking people laughing at me all morning? Well, it all started with my government prescribed French language lessons. One would think that with me being essentially unable to speak the language that these would be an incredible boon to my situation. One would think...
It all started to go wrong right from the start, with a government employee who lost all interest in her job, and in retrospect perhaps herself as a whole. The woman in question was a state language examiner, tasked to evaluate the level of French language competence in immigrants and assign them the appropriate level and duration of instruction to allow them to learn the language.
Her "exam" consisted of a fake invitation to an event, written in French. I was first asked to read aloud the text, to judge my ability to "read" French. Immediately this was suspect, since I'm a Latin-based language speaker with 6 months in the country to be exposed to the french vowel sounds. I am able to pronounce much of what is put in front of me with varying degrees of accuracy... but by no means can I READ it. I mistakenly assume though that this would be taken into account, especially since I have insisted to her that I don't know any French, and repeatedly insist on conducting the interview in English (much to her overt disgust).
The second half of the "examination" consists of 3 or 4 multiple choice questions, asking me to respond to the contents of the above text. This is better, or would be, if she wasn't watching and grunting at me each time I was about to answer wrong until I managed to pick the right answer. Not exactly the most effective method of testing, in retrospect, but I take it all with a grain of salt, assuming that she's just putting me through the motions after my repeated insistence of zero French language skills. Afterall, I'm assigned 200 hours worth of lessons, which is a lot of time. I assume this is the maximum amount of time at the most beginner level.
This was a mistake that I wouldn't fully comprehend until last Saturday.
I knew something was wrong when my assigned classes were way up north, outside of Paris. I had been warned even before moving to the city, warned by former Parisians, to avoid the north end of Paris. This sat a little uneasy with me, but I've lived in some less than desirable places in my time and I know how to handle that. It turns out though that the neighborhood is everything I expect, it's immigrant slum housing, and it's within my ability to "handle" it... but definitely outside of my comfort level. It is also a 1.5 hour commute from my house to the school, and another 1.5 hour commute back in the evenings.
If this is where it ended, It would be lame, bearable, but lame. However this is just where things being to come out from under me.
I arrive in class, and almost immediately the instructor and most of the class begin having comfortable conversations... in French. This is odd, but i figure that maybe to my ear what seems comfortable is in actuality rather poor French and I simply cannot tell the difference yet. Perhaps there are only a few stand out students with above average comprehension and spoken language skills, and I am not the only one that doesn't have a clue what's going on. This is not the case.
Each time the instructor asks me a question, I repeat the phrase "Je ne parle pas Francais" with increasing frustration and desperation, as it is the only real answer I have to anything she says since I am unable to comprehend any of what she is saying to me. She seems to either ignore this, or assume I am joking and continues to call on me thoughout the morning. Each question elicits my same predicable response, and each response generates bigger laughs from the class.
Were I trying to be funny, I would love the kind of laughs I was getting by the end of the morning's class. These are the kind of laughs that kickstart standup comedy careers and land people in movies. Sadly though, I was trying to learn French, and I was attempting to do so in a class for people who have a firm grasp of the language, both oral and written.
At one point during the class I discover that a man a few chairs to my left is a Tibetan man, and I learn this as he explains to the teacher his nationality and, what I assume to be, long personal history entirely in French. I almost lost my proverbial shit right there. My thoughts at that moment were clear "Even they guy from Tibet knows more French than me?! What the FUCK is going on here?!?".
I remain calm though, or as calm as possible. I toss my pen down on my note book, remove my eye glasses and rub my eyes in frustration and disbelief. At this point, I am still a few feet away from The Wall, and I am still feeling as though maybe this will all get better any moment and the teacher is simply finding out the proficiencies of the various students.
This too does not last.
As I am becoming routinely called upon by the instructor, and ever more frustrated simply by her insistence that perhaps asking me more things will suddenly make me admit I was pretending and could speak French all along, I am drawing her attention almost entirely. At first I hope that this means that she will finally sort me out and things will make sense, but instead I am becoming a topic of discussion for the class instead. At one point, she begins to describe me to the class, talking about my freckles, unusual facial hair and it's red color.
It was around this point that the laughs were coming without action on my part. I knew walking out of the train station that morning that I was the only white face I was bound to see, and the classroom was no exception, instructor included. I am used to drawing looks, I'm not an average looking guy almost anywhere. Now however we have crossed the line, I am being singled out, dicussed and laughed at in another language, and I am without recourse or ability to defend myself.
I have found The Wall at full speed. The impact is, psychologically speaking, catastrophic.
The lunch break comes and, as the class begins to file out of the room the teacher comes over to ask me if I understood anything... in French. I understand what she's asking, but more through context and tone. I tell her "No". She repeats the question two more times, and this line of questioning has inevitable result of causing the class to stop their business of leaving for lunch to stop and watch. I repeat "No" to her each time until a student who also speaks English asks me the same question in English. The answer I give this classmate, while more frustrated and verbose is still "No". She relays this to the teacher in French who simply tells me in English "this will be a very hard class for you then" and turns to deal with other students.
No fucking shit? Up until now I had been just sailing through it like a fucking dream and had no idea this was going to be very tough. Of course I don't say this, and the rest of the students all murmur and giggle and continue to leave for lunch. I wait for the teacher to finish speaking with a couple inquisitive students and then ask her why I am in this class, and if there is one more suited to my skill level. She speaks almost no English, so much of this question is finally communicated and answered via pantomime. The result: there is.
Over lunch I am transferred to a beginners course, to which I will report after I find myself a meal. I do so, and the act of eating, and speaking with my wife over the phone, keeps my from having a breakdown on the street. I feel like now that I have sorted out this big problem, I am finally where I need to be. I finish lunch and wait for my new class to resume.
I assume that, like my initial class, that this new class of beginners is also in it's first day. Sadly, after much stifled conversation with one of my new classmates and my new instructor, I learn that are 8 weeks into the course, and even here, people are already able to speak some degree of French.
The new instructor and my nearest classmate are upbeat and try their best to reassure me I can catch up and that I will fit in... but this news is the final nail in the coffin; I am defeated. I spend the remainder of the class there out of respect and politeness, but I know that I will not continue to attend. While I am required by the state to speak & write a bare minimum of French in order to renew my VISA, the method in which I learn how to is not mandatory.
As such, I have chosen to forgo the provided instructions and instead teach myself. I have done this with many other, equally complex subject in the past, and I will do it here too, but i refuse to be subjected to such counterproductive conditions in the pursuit.
I love being here in France, and I love the work I am here to do. I refuse to let some shitty, irresponsible and uncaring bureaucrats fuck that up for me. I'll pass their tests, but I will do it my way.
Combined this patience with a natural, single-minded determination to see things through and it combines to create a personality that gets things done and produces results. I rarely give up in frustration, I rarely "rage quit" on my projects, and I rarely push things away as "not worth the effort".
So, those few times where I reach a breaking point, it's usually after a significant period of time, pressure and repeated, soul-crushing failure. And it's happened only a couple times in my life. I've created a respectable and successful career by force of will after dropping out of highschool. I've taught myself to walk again after shattering and rebuild a section of my spinal column. I've rarely hit "The Wall". When push comes to shove, I always shove back harder.
So, when it took only a morning of being laughed at by French-speaking people (not with, at), I was surprised to find myself up against that wall. It could be argued that this was the culmination of a French related frustrations over the past year and a half that has lead to this point... but that argument isn't important here.
Why were French-speaking people laughing at me all morning? Well, it all started with my government prescribed French language lessons. One would think that with me being essentially unable to speak the language that these would be an incredible boon to my situation. One would think...
It all started to go wrong right from the start, with a government employee who lost all interest in her job, and in retrospect perhaps herself as a whole. The woman in question was a state language examiner, tasked to evaluate the level of French language competence in immigrants and assign them the appropriate level and duration of instruction to allow them to learn the language.
Her "exam" consisted of a fake invitation to an event, written in French. I was first asked to read aloud the text, to judge my ability to "read" French. Immediately this was suspect, since I'm a Latin-based language speaker with 6 months in the country to be exposed to the french vowel sounds. I am able to pronounce much of what is put in front of me with varying degrees of accuracy... but by no means can I READ it. I mistakenly assume though that this would be taken into account, especially since I have insisted to her that I don't know any French, and repeatedly insist on conducting the interview in English (much to her overt disgust).
The second half of the "examination" consists of 3 or 4 multiple choice questions, asking me to respond to the contents of the above text. This is better, or would be, if she wasn't watching and grunting at me each time I was about to answer wrong until I managed to pick the right answer. Not exactly the most effective method of testing, in retrospect, but I take it all with a grain of salt, assuming that she's just putting me through the motions after my repeated insistence of zero French language skills. Afterall, I'm assigned 200 hours worth of lessons, which is a lot of time. I assume this is the maximum amount of time at the most beginner level.
This was a mistake that I wouldn't fully comprehend until last Saturday.
I knew something was wrong when my assigned classes were way up north, outside of Paris. I had been warned even before moving to the city, warned by former Parisians, to avoid the north end of Paris. This sat a little uneasy with me, but I've lived in some less than desirable places in my time and I know how to handle that. It turns out though that the neighborhood is everything I expect, it's immigrant slum housing, and it's within my ability to "handle" it... but definitely outside of my comfort level. It is also a 1.5 hour commute from my house to the school, and another 1.5 hour commute back in the evenings.
If this is where it ended, It would be lame, bearable, but lame. However this is just where things being to come out from under me.
I arrive in class, and almost immediately the instructor and most of the class begin having comfortable conversations... in French. This is odd, but i figure that maybe to my ear what seems comfortable is in actuality rather poor French and I simply cannot tell the difference yet. Perhaps there are only a few stand out students with above average comprehension and spoken language skills, and I am not the only one that doesn't have a clue what's going on. This is not the case.
Each time the instructor asks me a question, I repeat the phrase "Je ne parle pas Francais" with increasing frustration and desperation, as it is the only real answer I have to anything she says since I am unable to comprehend any of what she is saying to me. She seems to either ignore this, or assume I am joking and continues to call on me thoughout the morning. Each question elicits my same predicable response, and each response generates bigger laughs from the class.
Were I trying to be funny, I would love the kind of laughs I was getting by the end of the morning's class. These are the kind of laughs that kickstart standup comedy careers and land people in movies. Sadly though, I was trying to learn French, and I was attempting to do so in a class for people who have a firm grasp of the language, both oral and written.
At one point during the class I discover that a man a few chairs to my left is a Tibetan man, and I learn this as he explains to the teacher his nationality and, what I assume to be, long personal history entirely in French. I almost lost my proverbial shit right there. My thoughts at that moment were clear "Even they guy from Tibet knows more French than me?! What the FUCK is going on here?!?".
I remain calm though, or as calm as possible. I toss my pen down on my note book, remove my eye glasses and rub my eyes in frustration and disbelief. At this point, I am still a few feet away from The Wall, and I am still feeling as though maybe this will all get better any moment and the teacher is simply finding out the proficiencies of the various students.
This too does not last.
As I am becoming routinely called upon by the instructor, and ever more frustrated simply by her insistence that perhaps asking me more things will suddenly make me admit I was pretending and could speak French all along, I am drawing her attention almost entirely. At first I hope that this means that she will finally sort me out and things will make sense, but instead I am becoming a topic of discussion for the class instead. At one point, she begins to describe me to the class, talking about my freckles, unusual facial hair and it's red color.
It was around this point that the laughs were coming without action on my part. I knew walking out of the train station that morning that I was the only white face I was bound to see, and the classroom was no exception, instructor included. I am used to drawing looks, I'm not an average looking guy almost anywhere. Now however we have crossed the line, I am being singled out, dicussed and laughed at in another language, and I am without recourse or ability to defend myself.
I have found The Wall at full speed. The impact is, psychologically speaking, catastrophic.
The lunch break comes and, as the class begins to file out of the room the teacher comes over to ask me if I understood anything... in French. I understand what she's asking, but more through context and tone. I tell her "No". She repeats the question two more times, and this line of questioning has inevitable result of causing the class to stop their business of leaving for lunch to stop and watch. I repeat "No" to her each time until a student who also speaks English asks me the same question in English. The answer I give this classmate, while more frustrated and verbose is still "No". She relays this to the teacher in French who simply tells me in English "this will be a very hard class for you then" and turns to deal with other students.
No fucking shit? Up until now I had been just sailing through it like a fucking dream and had no idea this was going to be very tough. Of course I don't say this, and the rest of the students all murmur and giggle and continue to leave for lunch. I wait for the teacher to finish speaking with a couple inquisitive students and then ask her why I am in this class, and if there is one more suited to my skill level. She speaks almost no English, so much of this question is finally communicated and answered via pantomime. The result: there is.
Over lunch I am transferred to a beginners course, to which I will report after I find myself a meal. I do so, and the act of eating, and speaking with my wife over the phone, keeps my from having a breakdown on the street. I feel like now that I have sorted out this big problem, I am finally where I need to be. I finish lunch and wait for my new class to resume.
I assume that, like my initial class, that this new class of beginners is also in it's first day. Sadly, after much stifled conversation with one of my new classmates and my new instructor, I learn that are 8 weeks into the course, and even here, people are already able to speak some degree of French.
The new instructor and my nearest classmate are upbeat and try their best to reassure me I can catch up and that I will fit in... but this news is the final nail in the coffin; I am defeated. I spend the remainder of the class there out of respect and politeness, but I know that I will not continue to attend. While I am required by the state to speak & write a bare minimum of French in order to renew my VISA, the method in which I learn how to is not mandatory.
As such, I have chosen to forgo the provided instructions and instead teach myself. I have done this with many other, equally complex subject in the past, and I will do it here too, but i refuse to be subjected to such counterproductive conditions in the pursuit.
I love being here in France, and I love the work I am here to do. I refuse to let some shitty, irresponsible and uncaring bureaucrats fuck that up for me. I'll pass their tests, but I will do it my way.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Tic-Tac-Toe
Sometimes it's hard to know what is truly common knowledge, spanning generational and racial divides, and it isn't until you wind up far beyond the confines of "your world" that you begin to question all of your assumptions.
For example, up until today I had assumed that everyone in the world knew how to play tic-tac-toe. It seems so simple and elegant that it would be something that would have vaulted cultural lines with the ease of Parisian driver hopping the curb. Yet, as it turns out, this was one of my little assumptions that was wrong, and I learned so in my special little cultural purgatory; State-run, mandatory French civics lessons.
This is not my first encounter with such State enforced learning during my time here, I have had to attend other such courses. However, this one was it's own special brand of inane and ridiculous.
As one would expect the class is composed of immigrants to France (to which I think I have mistakenly been lumped into, but that's another story), and as such languages spoken vary as widely as the backgrounds. In previous classes there was a large enough contingent of Turks to warrant their own translator. Today however was a more common French & English session.
Roughly 2/3 of the room could speak French, while the remainder were English speakers of various degrees. The room was segregated to facilitate an easier addressing in English to those who needed it. In previous classes the instructor pulled double duty, doing the French explanation for each powerpoint slide, then a summary (albeit seemingly much briefer than the French explanation) in English. This class was apparently large enough to warrant a separate English speaking translator.
I use the term "English speaking" rather loosely in this case.
Immediately it was plain that the presenter was of Indian decent and had the typical sort of English that is spoken by an Indian born speaker who learned English later in life and has trouble with the English syntax and structure. I didn't mind that though, since her spoken English is still far better than my French comprehension.
At first it was cute, since phrases like "The Germany occupied France in 1940 when The Hitler attacked" colored her translations, but it quickly devolved into sheer frustration. Not because of a language barrier, but because of an effort barrier. The translator felt comfortable translating things contextually (the context being her own knowledge), and with a tone of contempt (as though we should already know all this!) if she decided to translate anything at all.
This frustrated the English speakers at first and they constantly pelted her with questions, attempting to actually learn what was being presented. These efforts quickly dwindled until all that remained was the same contempt she was putting out.
Since there is no exam at the end of these sessions, no method of testing learning, retention or the effect of the lesson, all one has to do is endure until the end of the day to receive their certificate. This was when tic-tac-toe came into play.
My notebook for the day, like all the best notebooks, was a grid paper notebook. I drew a small tic-tac-toe board on the bottom corner of my notebook and slid it over to the woman next to me. We had met at the previous class and she recognized me again this class, and sat beside me. We hadn't actually spoken much beyond her borrowing a pen in the previous class, but in a room full of immigrants any familiar face is a friendly face.
She looked at the small grid I had drawn and cocked her head to the side. I took this to mean she didn't know what it was, so I drew an X in the middle square and gestured to her. She realized it was a game of some sort, but didn't know it. This was a shock to me, as it seemed like the sort of thing every kid learns along the way through childhood. Apparently not in Cambodia.
Her English was very limited, so I proceeded to teach her that game without speaking a single word. As a game designer this is both a thrill and a small bit of professional insight presenting itself. The rules of the game are incredibly simple, but explaining them through gesture and example could become complicated, so it required careful thought before each example or gesture.
I proceeded to play an example game against myself as she watched, giving time for her to see my marks on the page as I made them, and draw little bits of feedback to show what the goal was.
The example game concluded and I drew another grid, gesturing for her to make the first mark. We played a few games and it was clear she didn't understand why this was supposed to be fun, since all of our first few games ended in a tied game. I managed to sneak a win by her and her eyes lit up with an expression that clearly said "How did that happen?"
She stopped and thought carefully before she finally spoke, quietly under the lecture, saying "the shape is too small, can it play bigger?". She was expressing a frustration with the speed at which games concluded, the lack of any serious strategy and the draws the game that our games routinely concluded in, I knew this immediately. Yet, despite my profession, I must admit that I had no answer for her since I myself had never bothered to try playing on a larger grid size.
She took my pause in response correctly, understanding that I didn't know and she went ahead and drew a four by four board. We played it and both silently agreed that this configuration was un-fun. She drew the next board back in the standard three by three configuration, scored a victory and was jazzed.
Despite the game's inherent simplicity and lack of depth, we played happily for an hour or so, with the din of untranslated French history filling the background.
The class drew to a close and we both parted ways without notice. Happy to be free of the classroom purgatory and reclaim what little remained of the day.
For example, up until today I had assumed that everyone in the world knew how to play tic-tac-toe. It seems so simple and elegant that it would be something that would have vaulted cultural lines with the ease of Parisian driver hopping the curb. Yet, as it turns out, this was one of my little assumptions that was wrong, and I learned so in my special little cultural purgatory; State-run, mandatory French civics lessons.
This is not my first encounter with such State enforced learning during my time here, I have had to attend other such courses. However, this one was it's own special brand of inane and ridiculous.
As one would expect the class is composed of immigrants to France (to which I think I have mistakenly been lumped into, but that's another story), and as such languages spoken vary as widely as the backgrounds. In previous classes there was a large enough contingent of Turks to warrant their own translator. Today however was a more common French & English session.
Roughly 2/3 of the room could speak French, while the remainder were English speakers of various degrees. The room was segregated to facilitate an easier addressing in English to those who needed it. In previous classes the instructor pulled double duty, doing the French explanation for each powerpoint slide, then a summary (albeit seemingly much briefer than the French explanation) in English. This class was apparently large enough to warrant a separate English speaking translator.
I use the term "English speaking" rather loosely in this case.
Immediately it was plain that the presenter was of Indian decent and had the typical sort of English that is spoken by an Indian born speaker who learned English later in life and has trouble with the English syntax and structure. I didn't mind that though, since her spoken English is still far better than my French comprehension.
At first it was cute, since phrases like "The Germany occupied France in 1940 when The Hitler attacked" colored her translations, but it quickly devolved into sheer frustration. Not because of a language barrier, but because of an effort barrier. The translator felt comfortable translating things contextually (the context being her own knowledge), and with a tone of contempt (as though we should already know all this!) if she decided to translate anything at all.
This frustrated the English speakers at first and they constantly pelted her with questions, attempting to actually learn what was being presented. These efforts quickly dwindled until all that remained was the same contempt she was putting out.
Since there is no exam at the end of these sessions, no method of testing learning, retention or the effect of the lesson, all one has to do is endure until the end of the day to receive their certificate. This was when tic-tac-toe came into play.
My notebook for the day, like all the best notebooks, was a grid paper notebook. I drew a small tic-tac-toe board on the bottom corner of my notebook and slid it over to the woman next to me. We had met at the previous class and she recognized me again this class, and sat beside me. We hadn't actually spoken much beyond her borrowing a pen in the previous class, but in a room full of immigrants any familiar face is a friendly face.
She looked at the small grid I had drawn and cocked her head to the side. I took this to mean she didn't know what it was, so I drew an X in the middle square and gestured to her. She realized it was a game of some sort, but didn't know it. This was a shock to me, as it seemed like the sort of thing every kid learns along the way through childhood. Apparently not in Cambodia.
Her English was very limited, so I proceeded to teach her that game without speaking a single word. As a game designer this is both a thrill and a small bit of professional insight presenting itself. The rules of the game are incredibly simple, but explaining them through gesture and example could become complicated, so it required careful thought before each example or gesture.
I proceeded to play an example game against myself as she watched, giving time for her to see my marks on the page as I made them, and draw little bits of feedback to show what the goal was.
The example game concluded and I drew another grid, gesturing for her to make the first mark. We played a few games and it was clear she didn't understand why this was supposed to be fun, since all of our first few games ended in a tied game. I managed to sneak a win by her and her eyes lit up with an expression that clearly said "How did that happen?"
She stopped and thought carefully before she finally spoke, quietly under the lecture, saying "the shape is too small, can it play bigger?". She was expressing a frustration with the speed at which games concluded, the lack of any serious strategy and the draws the game that our games routinely concluded in, I knew this immediately. Yet, despite my profession, I must admit that I had no answer for her since I myself had never bothered to try playing on a larger grid size.
She took my pause in response correctly, understanding that I didn't know and she went ahead and drew a four by four board. We played it and both silently agreed that this configuration was un-fun. She drew the next board back in the standard three by three configuration, scored a victory and was jazzed.
Despite the game's inherent simplicity and lack of depth, we played happily for an hour or so, with the din of untranslated French history filling the background.
The class drew to a close and we both parted ways without notice. Happy to be free of the classroom purgatory and reclaim what little remained of the day.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Beautiful Béarnaise
Over the weekend I had the good fortune to travel out of town with some old friends from Canada. We took to the road and headed north and stop all along the way, as one tends to do on a road trip.
As one of out many and varied stops we took the time to check out Versailles Palace, which as you might imagine is pretty much non-stop fantastic from start to finish.
However for me the highlight of the stop was discovering Béarnaise sauce while taking lunch in the Palace.
For most normal people taking lunch in Versailles alone constitutes a pretty good day, and for with a wide and sophisticated palette Béarnaise isn't anything shocking. I however grew up in Calgary, Alberta. which unlike the whole of France, isn't exactly known for their sauces.
Here however, sauces are an art form in their preparation and can make or break a meal. In this case I had a beef fillet and mashed potatoes. It didn't come as a surprise that it was a nice meal in and of it's own right, but had i stuck with my "purist" instincts (as anyone who's eaten sashimi with me, I eat it straight, no wasabi or soy sauce to muddle the flavor of the fish) and ignored the small pot of yellow sauce nestled neatly in between the two, it wouldn't have been anything special whatsoever.
Thankfully I remembered, perhaps unconsciously, that I was in the heart of one of the most revered styles of cuisine (in fact the french invented the word cuisine, which should tell you something about their cooking prowess when everyone uses their word) in the world. I dabbed a little on with the beef and suddenly my meal became otherworldly!
This has been a lesson to me; try everything that is put in front of me when eating here! I should have known that it would be fantastic. when it comes to food, even the most discount and common is a step above the kind of food you get almost anywhere back in Canada.
I know that this summer I will be taking more time to eat out at restaurants and learn more about French cuisine. Hell, just passing through the markets that spring up on the streets throughout the week as I head to and from work are eye opening, to say the least:
As one of out many and varied stops we took the time to check out Versailles Palace, which as you might imagine is pretty much non-stop fantastic from start to finish.
However for me the highlight of the stop was discovering Béarnaise sauce while taking lunch in the Palace.
For most normal people taking lunch in Versailles alone constitutes a pretty good day, and for with a wide and sophisticated palette Béarnaise isn't anything shocking. I however grew up in Calgary, Alberta. which unlike the whole of France, isn't exactly known for their sauces.
Here however, sauces are an art form in their preparation and can make or break a meal. In this case I had a beef fillet and mashed potatoes. It didn't come as a surprise that it was a nice meal in and of it's own right, but had i stuck with my "purist" instincts (as anyone who's eaten sashimi with me, I eat it straight, no wasabi or soy sauce to muddle the flavor of the fish) and ignored the small pot of yellow sauce nestled neatly in between the two, it wouldn't have been anything special whatsoever.
Thankfully I remembered, perhaps unconsciously, that I was in the heart of one of the most revered styles of cuisine (in fact the french invented the word cuisine, which should tell you something about their cooking prowess when everyone uses their word) in the world. I dabbed a little on with the beef and suddenly my meal became otherworldly!
This has been a lesson to me; try everything that is put in front of me when eating here! I should have known that it would be fantastic. when it comes to food, even the most discount and common is a step above the kind of food you get almost anywhere back in Canada.
I know that this summer I will be taking more time to eat out at restaurants and learn more about French cuisine. Hell, just passing through the markets that spring up on the streets throughout the week as I head to and from work are eye opening, to say the least:
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Health en Francais
So it was bound to happen; significant illness.
I was really hoping I would magically never get sick while in France, and not even out of some neurotic concern for my own health, but rather a simple desire to avoid healthcare en Francais.
On my latest return trip from Raleigh I failed to avoid the dreaded plane-plague. It's no secret that the worst variants of every viral bug can be found recirculating at thirty-thousand feet. I happened to catch a fairly common form of "kick you in the potatoes" flu, and fittingly enough it brought me down like a sack of said tubers.
I didn't locate an English speaking doctor in time to go in and get checked out, largely cause I was was too sick to muster of the energy to do so (it's a huge hassle to to pop into a convenience store I am unfamiliar with at this point, let alone try to find an Anglo or fluent English-speaking doctor on short notice), so I was unable to get a note for my missed days. Depending on how you look at it, this is either a good thing or a bad thing, but either way: c'est la vie.
What I did learn from this experience, besides the fact that I hate being sick (not exactly and earth shattering revelation) is an interesting bit of insight into the French view on personal healthcare.
Up until now I'd heard a couple odd stories float up from other expats, but they didn't really stick. I simply could not grok what they were trying to tell me with these stories, that's how foreign their lessons were.
This tidbit of French insight came to me today while speaking with my boss about my time away. Since I did not have a doctors note, I was unable to get the days off as "sick days" (there is no concept of a predefined allotment of sick days here in France as there is in Canada. Instead, you get as many days off as cleared by a doctor) so I had to use a couple of my vacation days.
He looked at me funny when I told him I would be using vacation days to cover my sick days (because it's a stupid thing to do), so I had to explain that I did not have a doctor yet, and thus did not have a note. The next expression on his face was immediate and unmistakeable, regardless of our separate native languages. It said "OMG!" and was quickly followed by the question that lent me this insight: "Well then how did you know what to do?!".
There is was, a simple and honest truth bundled in the form of a concerned question. How did I know how to handle a flu without seeing a doctor first. The question pinged around the inside my skull like a small calibre round. At first I felt he was mocking me, as that would be the only logical option were it any Canadian asking me, but it wasn't a Canadian and I had to quickly reconsider: Quickly.
My boss, a man who makes high-stress, high-stakes, multi-million dollar decisions on a moment to moment basis was legitimately asking me how I handled a flu without trained medical supervision. I almost (but not quite) blurted out with a laugh "you don't have to be a doctor to deal with a flu", but that was exactly it. Around here, you do. Instead I look my boss straight in the eyes and said "Nothing, I went to bed". He was shocked, eyes bugged out kind of shocked.
Suddenly those strange stories from fellow expats about doctors visits for a subtle cough made sense. Here in France people go to the doctor for everything. Seriously: EVERYTHING. The concept didn't even seem feasible to me as it dawned on me. Yet before that impossibility had it's due time in the batter's box the next, and far more gratifying idea stepped up to the plate. Suddenly in my bosses eyes I became some sort of rugged, mountain-man type Canadian. Cold? Flu? Fever? I laugh at these things (and by laugh I mean retreat to my bed like a sniffly five year old, but i strangely omitted that part during my recollection to the boss).
It was a pretty gratifying question when all was said and done. Who knew that catching a nasty flu could bolster ones reputation around the office.
I was really hoping I would magically never get sick while in France, and not even out of some neurotic concern for my own health, but rather a simple desire to avoid healthcare en Francais.
On my latest return trip from Raleigh I failed to avoid the dreaded plane-plague. It's no secret that the worst variants of every viral bug can be found recirculating at thirty-thousand feet. I happened to catch a fairly common form of "kick you in the potatoes" flu, and fittingly enough it brought me down like a sack of said tubers.
I didn't locate an English speaking doctor in time to go in and get checked out, largely cause I was was too sick to muster of the energy to do so (it's a huge hassle to to pop into a convenience store I am unfamiliar with at this point, let alone try to find an Anglo or fluent English-speaking doctor on short notice), so I was unable to get a note for my missed days. Depending on how you look at it, this is either a good thing or a bad thing, but either way: c'est la vie.
What I did learn from this experience, besides the fact that I hate being sick (not exactly and earth shattering revelation) is an interesting bit of insight into the French view on personal healthcare.
Up until now I'd heard a couple odd stories float up from other expats, but they didn't really stick. I simply could not grok what they were trying to tell me with these stories, that's how foreign their lessons were.
This tidbit of French insight came to me today while speaking with my boss about my time away. Since I did not have a doctors note, I was unable to get the days off as "sick days" (there is no concept of a predefined allotment of sick days here in France as there is in Canada. Instead, you get as many days off as cleared by a doctor) so I had to use a couple of my vacation days.
He looked at me funny when I told him I would be using vacation days to cover my sick days (because it's a stupid thing to do), so I had to explain that I did not have a doctor yet, and thus did not have a note. The next expression on his face was immediate and unmistakeable, regardless of our separate native languages. It said "OMG!" and was quickly followed by the question that lent me this insight: "Well then how did you know what to do?!".
There is was, a simple and honest truth bundled in the form of a concerned question. How did I know how to handle a flu without seeing a doctor first. The question pinged around the inside my skull like a small calibre round. At first I felt he was mocking me, as that would be the only logical option were it any Canadian asking me, but it wasn't a Canadian and I had to quickly reconsider: Quickly.
My boss, a man who makes high-stress, high-stakes, multi-million dollar decisions on a moment to moment basis was legitimately asking me how I handled a flu without trained medical supervision. I almost (but not quite) blurted out with a laugh "you don't have to be a doctor to deal with a flu", but that was exactly it. Around here, you do. Instead I look my boss straight in the eyes and said "Nothing, I went to bed". He was shocked, eyes bugged out kind of shocked.
Suddenly those strange stories from fellow expats about doctors visits for a subtle cough made sense. Here in France people go to the doctor for everything. Seriously: EVERYTHING. The concept didn't even seem feasible to me as it dawned on me. Yet before that impossibility had it's due time in the batter's box the next, and far more gratifying idea stepped up to the plate. Suddenly in my bosses eyes I became some sort of rugged, mountain-man type Canadian. Cold? Flu? Fever? I laugh at these things (and by laugh I mean retreat to my bed like a sniffly five year old, but i strangely omitted that part during my recollection to the boss).
It was a pretty gratifying question when all was said and done. Who knew that catching a nasty flu could bolster ones reputation around the office.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Note: Bus Drivers
I have marveled at the Parisian transit system since my first experience with it, but for this post I will address on specific topic; Bus drivers. The bus drivers here in Paris are the antithesis of their counterparts in Vancouver, which is to saw they are super awesome here. It's like someone running the buses realized that they were running buses to move people around and not to post unyielding route times for all the world to admire.
In Vancouver, the only time and place you can possibly get on a bus is when said bus has pulled up to it's stop. If it is pulling away from the stop, it will not stop to let you on. If you run to catch the bus, 99 times out of 100 the bus will pull away instead of waiting for you. And in some rare instances bus drivers will simply not stop for you at all. The buses are strangely the least Canadian part of the city; Very unfriendly and rarely accommodating.
In Paris, this very morning in fact, I saw my transfer bus leaving the station as I stepped out of another bus. I ran to the edge of the station's 'island' that all the buses stop around and waved as he approached, he popped the doors and slowed down. I jogged over and hopped on as he rolled along with his doors open and, once I was aboard he pulled out of the station. That's right, not only did he let me on after he had left his stop in the station, but it was we completed a rolling embarkation to boot.
Time and again I have seen bus drivers take on passengers at almost any possible point, wait for passengers running to catch a bus and just generally act like decent human beings towards their passengers. It really is a strange thing coming from the iron-fisted regime of Translink.
In Vancouver, the only time and place you can possibly get on a bus is when said bus has pulled up to it's stop. If it is pulling away from the stop, it will not stop to let you on. If you run to catch the bus, 99 times out of 100 the bus will pull away instead of waiting for you. And in some rare instances bus drivers will simply not stop for you at all. The buses are strangely the least Canadian part of the city; Very unfriendly and rarely accommodating.
In Paris, this very morning in fact, I saw my transfer bus leaving the station as I stepped out of another bus. I ran to the edge of the station's 'island' that all the buses stop around and waved as he approached, he popped the doors and slowed down. I jogged over and hopped on as he rolled along with his doors open and, once I was aboard he pulled out of the station. That's right, not only did he let me on after he had left his stop in the station, but it was we completed a rolling embarkation to boot.
Time and again I have seen bus drivers take on passengers at almost any possible point, wait for passengers running to catch a bus and just generally act like decent human beings towards their passengers. It really is a strange thing coming from the iron-fisted regime of Translink.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
In an English land
I'm on a short business trip to Raleigh, North Carolina, and once again immersed in English. I can talk to nearly anyone I want to, order things, read signs and all the other things you take for granted each day. It's a nice break, but I've rediscovered that just because you CAN understand everyone doesn't mean you really want to.
While waiting for my connecting flight in NYC a yong mother and her child sat down on the floor next to where I was standing. She couldn't have been more than 17, and she was traveling with her young child of only a year or so. She produced a bottle from a bag and fed the little one before finding a cell phone to call home with. What sounded to be her mother picked up and she began to break down and unfurl a long story of a travel that was breaking her will. Fully in tears and holding her infant in her arms, it was tough to easy to understand each work passing her lips, but very hard to hear.
Later, once on board the plane to NC, I discover I am seated directly in front of two loud mouthed and air headed "young adults". She talks loudly about needing to find someone to fuck once they arrive in Raliegh and telling her companion he sounds "faggier" every day. He proceeds to take out his cell phone and attempt to make a call while we are in the midst of takeoff, then act like a dick to the flight attendant who ask him politely to put it away.
Sometimes being in a country where you can't understand anyone has it's advantages. Advantages that can be tough to comprehend until you lose them.
Of course, there are upsides too. Coming in for a landing into NYC the pilot comes over the speakers to do the usual briefing of local time, temperature and time until landing. Unlike the previous announcement made at takeoff in Paris, this one is done by the other man in the cockpit, who has the most stereotypical New York / Brooklyn accent. He proceeds to inform us that we are " coming into New York JFK about 20 minutes late, you know, and that once on the ground we will taxi so that's gonna add on at least five minutes, right?" It was enough to make me grin listening to the most casual airline pilot in my experience who just sounded like a new york cabbie talking to his last fare of the day before going home.
Well, time to get to work, Jet lag isn't too terrible today. Time to go talk to people, free and easy!
While waiting for my connecting flight in NYC a yong mother and her child sat down on the floor next to where I was standing. She couldn't have been more than 17, and she was traveling with her young child of only a year or so. She produced a bottle from a bag and fed the little one before finding a cell phone to call home with. What sounded to be her mother picked up and she began to break down and unfurl a long story of a travel that was breaking her will. Fully in tears and holding her infant in her arms, it was tough to easy to understand each work passing her lips, but very hard to hear.
Later, once on board the plane to NC, I discover I am seated directly in front of two loud mouthed and air headed "young adults". She talks loudly about needing to find someone to fuck once they arrive in Raliegh and telling her companion he sounds "faggier" every day. He proceeds to take out his cell phone and attempt to make a call while we are in the midst of takeoff, then act like a dick to the flight attendant who ask him politely to put it away.
Sometimes being in a country where you can't understand anyone has it's advantages. Advantages that can be tough to comprehend until you lose them.
Of course, there are upsides too. Coming in for a landing into NYC the pilot comes over the speakers to do the usual briefing of local time, temperature and time until landing. Unlike the previous announcement made at takeoff in Paris, this one is done by the other man in the cockpit, who has the most stereotypical New York / Brooklyn accent. He proceeds to inform us that we are " coming into New York JFK about 20 minutes late, you know, and that once on the ground we will taxi so that's gonna add on at least five minutes, right?" It was enough to make me grin listening to the most casual airline pilot in my experience who just sounded like a new york cabbie talking to his last fare of the day before going home.
Well, time to get to work, Jet lag isn't too terrible today. Time to go talk to people, free and easy!
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Western Union Hell
I recently had my family loan me a sum of money while I wait for funds ties up in Canada to liquidate, as they did not do so before I left. This alone was a point of stress, as we arrived here in Paris with very little cash on hand, and discovered I am paid only once per month with the next cheque 3 weeks away.
To facilitate a quick and easy transfer of money from Canada to France I provided my family with all my banking information for my new account here in France. They could then take this information to their bank and wire over the money directly into my account with ease. Of course, I forgot to take into account the "Calgary" factor in the equation. Upon my family presenting a complete set of international banking information required for the transfer they said informed my family that they didn't know what to do with this information and could not send a wire.
Seriously? Your a bank, all you do is deal with money. It's not as though they had requested immediate dental surgery in the bank manager's office. No, instead they refused to provide them with essentially what is their only service; facilitate their banking needs.
I was left with the visual image in my mind of sterotypical cowboy behind a bankers desk, laying out with a heavy drawl "Well golly ma'am, I just dunno what to do with all there here confounded numbers you be showin' me".
So, the options at this point were Western Union, or a Fed Ex envelope full of cash. At first blush you would think that the second of the two is the wrong choice, and that instead you should go to the company who's entire business the sending and receiving of money around the world. You would be wrong, and here is why:
After consulting with the Western Union website, I discovered the nearest location to my office (according to the WU website search, which would, days later, reveal two locations significantly closer) and informed my sender of it's location. When they sent the money they were told "He will be able to pick it up at any location".
The next day after the transfer is sent i proceed to take an early lunch and head to the predetermined location, a "Le Banque Postale", a post office bank with a Western Union agent badge and sign on the outside. Upon arriving I stand in line at wait. Since this is a post office & bank, there are a number of people in line all wanting to do different things. Two men in front of me each step up to a teller. One begins dealing with post concerns, buying stamps and mailing letters. The second looks to be receiving a western union transfer, which is an encouraging sign. They are occupying the only two tellers in the branch.
The second appears to become impatient, pacing away from the window and back again during each pause in the conversation with the teller. Eventually he is passed some money under the thick security glass, but this does not satisfy him. He begins to talk loudly to the teller, eventually devolving into screams of frustration. I am left to assume that he has not been given the amount of money he expects. This is not an encouraging development.
The man buying stamps finishes his business and I attempt to take his teller. Before I am able to make my move though the argument is put to an end at the other teller as she barricades her window with a clipboard. This sends our angry man into orbit and he throws a tantrum, now firmly directed at the second teller. I am unable to access either teller now. After a few minutes the irate man settles into a loud discussion with his new teller, prompting the other teller to unblock her window.
I proceed to communicate I need to receive a Western Union transfer, at which point she hands me a form I must fill out and directs me to leave her window to fill it out. I have a pressing appointment shortly, so I try to communicate that I will be quick, but she understandably wants to move the line. I step to the side (wishing these forms were available while waiting in line), fill out the form in a minute, turn around and find that the line now snakes back the the door.
I step back into line, wait and watch the man continue to yell and throw things at the window until I cannot wait any longer. I have to be at my bank in only a few minutes to pickup my chequebook before they close for lunch. (yes, banques here close for lunch. I'm not sure when salarymen are expected to do their banking, but that's another story). I need to get my cheques and meet my relocation agent to sign over a cheque to her for her services, some €3,000+ which is thankfully covered by the government. However she can only meet me at precisely 11:45, and I have left the post office at 11:35, some 7 or 8 blocks away.
I begin to jog. I am not a jogger by nature or by capability, and it's always a possibility I am going to severly twist (or even break) my bad ankle when I run, so I don't do it often. However I am compelled to make sure I meet here exactly on time, pedestrian traffic has other ideas on the matter. There is a sidewalk market setup for almost the entire distance between two locations, so it's wall to wall people and I spend as much time dodging people on the sidewalk as I do street traffic, as it becomes easier and quicker to run in traffic.
I make it, at exactly 11:45 and she hasn't arrived yet, giving me a chance to pop into the bank and get my chequebook. It takes only a moment and I return outside to cool down and catch my breath while I wait. She is 15 minutes late and in no real hurry at all once she does arrive. *sigh. Papers are signed, a cheque changes hands and I am still poor, having a short tempered frenchman to blame for gumming up the works at the post office.
I am forced to return to the office as everything closes over lunch and plan to find a location tomorrow, as I will have the entire Saturday to do so. As it turns out, there is a post office bank that is open until noon about 15 minutes away from my new apartment. This is the plan I settle on.
The next day Aja and I sleep in a little, so we don't arrive at the bank until 11:30, and it's packed. I wait in line for a while before a post office worker begins filtering through the line asking what everyone needs. He comes to me, and he explains as best he can that it is too late for them to sign over the money today. He suggests I go to another Western Union Agent nearby (a 40 minutes walk in the opposite direction) and we have no choice but to set out.
We stop an an internet cafe as we head back to find the location of the agents, both are open until 7pm. We get groceries, head home and have some lunch. After lunch we set out again, eventually locating the first agent. The business has changed names from the one listedon the Western Union site, but still bears the WU agent badge and signs. He refuses to even discuss receiving a transfer and points us in the direction of the other agent nearby, a couple blocks away. Upon arriving there he looks at my form, sees the amount and refuses to cash it in stating that is it 3 times his "maximum limit". So much for being able to pick up a transfer at any branch.
By now the day is spent and so are our legs. We hike back up the long hill to our house and pack it in. Still poor. Sunday is a wash, nothing is open Sundays. Monday I am not feeling well and stay home. I later in the day decide I'm feeling a well enough to walk around and we set out to the post office near our house again. They are open all day, so we have plenty of time. We wait in line, speak with a teller and are refused. It is too much money for them to cash.
It is at this point I begin to deeply question the nature of this postal bank. The agent says I need to go to a different WU agent in a nearby shopping district, 30 minutes away by bus. Having no other option, we set out again. Returning to the cyber cafe near our home to find the address of this WU agent. I am greeted by the Western Union website, which I have come to loathe, and it informs me that in the area I have been directed to there are a number of agents, all located within branches of "le banque postale". I am not amused by this development and wonder if I will ever actually get my money out of a company that does nothing other than send money to people.
We proceed to the shopping district, and find the next location, another postal bank. A staggeringly long line fills the small branch to the brim, and while waiting in this line I come to one conclusion; They are not going to give me money. This postal bank location differs from the others I have been in, as it has no heavy-duty security glass separating the clients from the employees. It seems obvious to me they are even less equipped to deal with money transfers if they do not have this level of security, but I wait, since I have no other choice.
We finally make it to the front of the line and speak with an agent after what seems like an eternity in that hot, sweaty line. He speaks only a small amount of English, but delivers the expected message; sorry, I cannot give you this much money. He however attempts to relate how we can find our money with more effort and detail than the previous "go to some other distant part of town and be someone else's problem" lines we had been given in various flavours. He tells us there is an actual Western Union branch, not just an agent in another business, nearby. However he finds it very difficult to describe where it is due to the language barrier. We have no familiarity with area making us no help to his efforts, but he presses on, gesturing and talking before finally drawing us a map on a slip of note paper.
It turns out there in the nearby Auchan (a large grocery chain) the branch resides. After a little struggling to interpret the directions given to us we find it, and after FOUR days (three of which were spent almost entirely walking) we are finally delivered our money. The promise told to my sender of "He'll be able to pick it up at any location" was a blatant lie to hurry the sender out the door after the money was in their hands.
Annoyed and exhausted we finally finished a task that should have taken an hour or two. What's the moral of the story? if you have to send any significant amount of money, insist your banker get his act together and learn how to send an international wire transfer, cause it's their fucking job.
To facilitate a quick and easy transfer of money from Canada to France I provided my family with all my banking information for my new account here in France. They could then take this information to their bank and wire over the money directly into my account with ease. Of course, I forgot to take into account the "Calgary" factor in the equation. Upon my family presenting a complete set of international banking information required for the transfer they said informed my family that they didn't know what to do with this information and could not send a wire.
Seriously? Your a bank, all you do is deal with money. It's not as though they had requested immediate dental surgery in the bank manager's office. No, instead they refused to provide them with essentially what is their only service; facilitate their banking needs.
I was left with the visual image in my mind of sterotypical cowboy behind a bankers desk, laying out with a heavy drawl "Well golly ma'am, I just dunno what to do with all there here confounded numbers you be showin' me".
So, the options at this point were Western Union, or a Fed Ex envelope full of cash. At first blush you would think that the second of the two is the wrong choice, and that instead you should go to the company who's entire business the sending and receiving of money around the world. You would be wrong, and here is why:
After consulting with the Western Union website, I discovered the nearest location to my office (according to the WU website search, which would, days later, reveal two locations significantly closer) and informed my sender of it's location. When they sent the money they were told "He will be able to pick it up at any location".
The next day after the transfer is sent i proceed to take an early lunch and head to the predetermined location, a "Le Banque Postale", a post office bank with a Western Union agent badge and sign on the outside. Upon arriving I stand in line at wait. Since this is a post office & bank, there are a number of people in line all wanting to do different things. Two men in front of me each step up to a teller. One begins dealing with post concerns, buying stamps and mailing letters. The second looks to be receiving a western union transfer, which is an encouraging sign. They are occupying the only two tellers in the branch.
The second appears to become impatient, pacing away from the window and back again during each pause in the conversation with the teller. Eventually he is passed some money under the thick security glass, but this does not satisfy him. He begins to talk loudly to the teller, eventually devolving into screams of frustration. I am left to assume that he has not been given the amount of money he expects. This is not an encouraging development.
The man buying stamps finishes his business and I attempt to take his teller. Before I am able to make my move though the argument is put to an end at the other teller as she barricades her window with a clipboard. This sends our angry man into orbit and he throws a tantrum, now firmly directed at the second teller. I am unable to access either teller now. After a few minutes the irate man settles into a loud discussion with his new teller, prompting the other teller to unblock her window.
I proceed to communicate I need to receive a Western Union transfer, at which point she hands me a form I must fill out and directs me to leave her window to fill it out. I have a pressing appointment shortly, so I try to communicate that I will be quick, but she understandably wants to move the line. I step to the side (wishing these forms were available while waiting in line), fill out the form in a minute, turn around and find that the line now snakes back the the door.
I step back into line, wait and watch the man continue to yell and throw things at the window until I cannot wait any longer. I have to be at my bank in only a few minutes to pickup my chequebook before they close for lunch. (yes, banques here close for lunch. I'm not sure when salarymen are expected to do their banking, but that's another story). I need to get my cheques and meet my relocation agent to sign over a cheque to her for her services, some €3,000+ which is thankfully covered by the government. However she can only meet me at precisely 11:45, and I have left the post office at 11:35, some 7 or 8 blocks away.
I begin to jog. I am not a jogger by nature or by capability, and it's always a possibility I am going to severly twist (or even break) my bad ankle when I run, so I don't do it often. However I am compelled to make sure I meet here exactly on time, pedestrian traffic has other ideas on the matter. There is a sidewalk market setup for almost the entire distance between two locations, so it's wall to wall people and I spend as much time dodging people on the sidewalk as I do street traffic, as it becomes easier and quicker to run in traffic.
I make it, at exactly 11:45 and she hasn't arrived yet, giving me a chance to pop into the bank and get my chequebook. It takes only a moment and I return outside to cool down and catch my breath while I wait. She is 15 minutes late and in no real hurry at all once she does arrive. *sigh. Papers are signed, a cheque changes hands and I am still poor, having a short tempered frenchman to blame for gumming up the works at the post office.
I am forced to return to the office as everything closes over lunch and plan to find a location tomorrow, as I will have the entire Saturday to do so. As it turns out, there is a post office bank that is open until noon about 15 minutes away from my new apartment. This is the plan I settle on.
The next day Aja and I sleep in a little, so we don't arrive at the bank until 11:30, and it's packed. I wait in line for a while before a post office worker begins filtering through the line asking what everyone needs. He comes to me, and he explains as best he can that it is too late for them to sign over the money today. He suggests I go to another Western Union Agent nearby (a 40 minutes walk in the opposite direction) and we have no choice but to set out.
We stop an an internet cafe as we head back to find the location of the agents, both are open until 7pm. We get groceries, head home and have some lunch. After lunch we set out again, eventually locating the first agent. The business has changed names from the one listedon the Western Union site, but still bears the WU agent badge and signs. He refuses to even discuss receiving a transfer and points us in the direction of the other agent nearby, a couple blocks away. Upon arriving there he looks at my form, sees the amount and refuses to cash it in stating that is it 3 times his "maximum limit". So much for being able to pick up a transfer at any branch.
By now the day is spent and so are our legs. We hike back up the long hill to our house and pack it in. Still poor. Sunday is a wash, nothing is open Sundays. Monday I am not feeling well and stay home. I later in the day decide I'm feeling a well enough to walk around and we set out to the post office near our house again. They are open all day, so we have plenty of time. We wait in line, speak with a teller and are refused. It is too much money for them to cash.
It is at this point I begin to deeply question the nature of this postal bank. The agent says I need to go to a different WU agent in a nearby shopping district, 30 minutes away by bus. Having no other option, we set out again. Returning to the cyber cafe near our home to find the address of this WU agent. I am greeted by the Western Union website, which I have come to loathe, and it informs me that in the area I have been directed to there are a number of agents, all located within branches of "le banque postale". I am not amused by this development and wonder if I will ever actually get my money out of a company that does nothing other than send money to people.
We proceed to the shopping district, and find the next location, another postal bank. A staggeringly long line fills the small branch to the brim, and while waiting in this line I come to one conclusion; They are not going to give me money. This postal bank location differs from the others I have been in, as it has no heavy-duty security glass separating the clients from the employees. It seems obvious to me they are even less equipped to deal with money transfers if they do not have this level of security, but I wait, since I have no other choice.
We finally make it to the front of the line and speak with an agent after what seems like an eternity in that hot, sweaty line. He speaks only a small amount of English, but delivers the expected message; sorry, I cannot give you this much money. He however attempts to relate how we can find our money with more effort and detail than the previous "go to some other distant part of town and be someone else's problem" lines we had been given in various flavours. He tells us there is an actual Western Union branch, not just an agent in another business, nearby. However he finds it very difficult to describe where it is due to the language barrier. We have no familiarity with area making us no help to his efforts, but he presses on, gesturing and talking before finally drawing us a map on a slip of note paper.
It turns out there in the nearby Auchan (a large grocery chain) the branch resides. After a little struggling to interpret the directions given to us we find it, and after FOUR days (three of which were spent almost entirely walking) we are finally delivered our money. The promise told to my sender of "He'll be able to pick it up at any location" was a blatant lie to hurry the sender out the door after the money was in their hands.
Annoyed and exhausted we finally finished a task that should have taken an hour or two. What's the moral of the story? if you have to send any significant amount of money, insist your banker get his act together and learn how to send an international wire transfer, cause it's their fucking job.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Metered Internet Usage; The Beginning of the End?
[[ I have reposted this here by request, from a Facebook note I wrote earlier in the day, so it can be more publicly accessed and distributed. While this blog is primarily about my experiences as a Canadian Expat in Paris, it seems a fitting soapbox to speak of affairs back home from time to time too. Fell free to link to the article, or repost in full on your site with credit, of course. ;) ]]
All this metered internet stuff got me thinking about when and where the divide will come in the internet. Will it simply be at the commercial end of things, with some ISP's offering packages to cater to large data consumers? Or will these sorts of things cause a much greater rift, leading to multiple 'Nets, public and private?
It goes against the whole concept of the internet to have competing networks, full of exclusive data, but it certainly doesn't go against historical precedence. At the highest levels, look at TV. You have numerous channels on each provider, and numerous providers each offering varied services and packages. Granted, most of the content is identical network to network, but that wasn't always so. It has only recently devolved into a pricing war.
How long before we start seeing website addresses in advertisements stating which 'Net to find them on? How long before ISP's start selling access to different networks (Ultranet, Overnet, "Broadnet; All the bandwidth you can handle"), or some networks which are altogether pirate, like pirate radio stations? It may sound like the stuff of cyberpunk fantasy, but it seems like a reasonable, but entirely unpalatable possibility to me.
Then again, perhaps I am just being apocalyptic. Either way, watch you usage and speak to your provider. The new rules are already underway back there.
I would make a bigger stink about it, were I still in Canada, cause Canada is definitely acting as a guinea pig on this one. Don't think for a second that other Big telecoms in other countries aren't watching closely on how this plays out in the Great White North. For the big telecom companies already involved in this one, like Bell, they are in a wonderful win-win situation. Firstly, they are only going to make more money from the ability to charge based on usage and overage. Where they will be charging dollars/gigabyte, their costs for said gigabyte are pennies at best.
With the likely reduction in online entertainment related data consumption, namely through big data consuming activities like Netflix and Youtube, people are going to start taking in less of of their daily entertainment online. This likely means a return to traditional TV based entertainment, and possible even a resurgence of print media consumption (though that's still less likely in my mind), all of which Bell has ownership stake in: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/CTVglobemedia. It must be nice when you can manipulate government policy in such profitable ways, regardless of how they actually serve the public.
In the end, metered usage is BS, and everyone in Canada who uses the internet should be upset. However what comes next could be far worse if this is allowed to stand.
All this metered internet stuff got me thinking about when and where the divide will come in the internet. Will it simply be at the commercial end of things, with some ISP's offering packages to cater to large data consumers? Or will these sorts of things cause a much greater rift, leading to multiple 'Nets, public and private?
It goes against the whole concept of the internet to have competing networks, full of exclusive data, but it certainly doesn't go against historical precedence. At the highest levels, look at TV. You have numerous channels on each provider, and numerous providers each offering varied services and packages. Granted, most of the content is identical network to network, but that wasn't always so. It has only recently devolved into a pricing war.
How long before we start seeing website addresses in advertisements stating which 'Net to find them on? How long before ISP's start selling access to different networks (Ultranet, Overnet, "Broadnet; All the bandwidth you can handle"), or some networks which are altogether pirate, like pirate radio stations? It may sound like the stuff of cyberpunk fantasy, but it seems like a reasonable, but entirely unpalatable possibility to me.
Then again, perhaps I am just being apocalyptic. Either way, watch you usage and speak to your provider. The new rules are already underway back there.
I would make a bigger stink about it, were I still in Canada, cause Canada is definitely acting as a guinea pig on this one. Don't think for a second that other Big telecoms in other countries aren't watching closely on how this plays out in the Great White North. For the big telecom companies already involved in this one, like Bell, they are in a wonderful win-win situation. Firstly, they are only going to make more money from the ability to charge based on usage and overage. Where they will be charging dollars/gigabyte, their costs for said gigabyte are pennies at best.
With the likely reduction in online entertainment related data consumption, namely through big data consuming activities like Netflix and Youtube, people are going to start taking in less of of their daily entertainment online. This likely means a return to traditional TV based entertainment, and possible even a resurgence of print media consumption (though that's still less likely in my mind), all of which Bell has ownership stake in: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/CTVglobemedia. It must be nice when you can manipulate government policy in such profitable ways, regardless of how they actually serve the public.
In the end, metered usage is BS, and everyone in Canada who uses the internet should be upset. However what comes next could be far worse if this is allowed to stand.
Monday, January 31, 2011
The Landlord
Well, after a great deal of stress, aggravation and numerous catch 22's that no one felt was worth while telling us about in advance, we finally have a house. It seems that luck was with us as we not only have a house, but we have a great landlord on top of that. Though for a few moments today, it didn't look so certain.
Among many lucky breaks we've had along the way, our new landlord is one of them. As we traveled to the new place today to do the entrance inspection and sign the papers my fears were confirmed. The chequebook that our new bank sent us, the entirely foreign and unusual chequebook that I was carrying with me to sign rent over to the new landlord, was in fact not a chequebook at all. It was in reality a book of deposit slips to be used at the bank. the bank had failed to send any cheques, but our lack of French failed to identify this lapse. This was going to put a massive wrinkle in taking possession of our new, nearly perfect apartment.
It has been my previous experience that landlords like to be paid for the use of their property. Paid upfront and in full. Showing up with empty hands and pockets bare was entirely embarrassing and incredibly stressful. I didn't want to lose this apartment. It has everything we need, and it's big enough to accommodate our things when they arrive. Better still, we can afford it. Or, we could if we had a way to pay for it.
Upon arrival we met with the landlord out front of the building and our wonderful relocation agent Sophie calmly explains we have no cheques to provide. Of course, the conversation happens in French as we follow in tow on the way to the parkade to see our parking spot. It is here that I expect the meeting to come to an abrupt end, and the large, grumpy looking landlord to walk away. Sophie finishes explaining the situation and he merely shrugs, motions towards the stairwell as he proceeds down while replying to Sophie in French. I am stunned and relieved that things haven't gone catastrophically wrong at this point, and he seems unphased by the news.
He shows us how to open the parkade door, points out the parking spot and mentions how the exit gate works. No mention of the fact that Sophie effectively told him we cannot pay him today, or provide any guarantees to the property he would be handing over to us.
Oh, did I forget to mention we also did not have the rental insurance secured either, as our bank is closed on mondays? The legally required insurance. Yup, on the surface of it we were perhaps the LAST possible people that he should be interested in signing the apartment over to. An accountant looking over a ledger of the positives and negatives of this deal would have canned it on sight. But like I said, our new landlord is one of our very lucky breaks.
The entrance inspection continues, and smoothly I might add. Sophie and our landlord, Monsieur Delannoy, move from room to room, gathering electrical meter numbers, noting the inventory and contents and generally proceeding like this was perfectly normal. I may not know a lot about the French, or anything at all to be honest, but I know that this is not normal.
It seems however that Mr. Delannoy has taken a liking to us. I suspect that at some point in his life he has lived overseas, and as a result knows how challenging it can be to get setup. During our initial interview over the weekend, upon learning that we had recently moved here and spoke only English, our landlord began speaking English with us and shook off his otherwise gruff and imposing exterior. He and he wife chatted in French and he related that they knew a friend, that lived only a few blocks from the building, who taught middle school and spoke English. They suggested that she might be able to help us with our French and would introduce us. At the time I should have taken that as a signal that we had already been accepted, but I was nervous and didn't pick up on it. I was just happy he spoke English.
Flash forward to this afternoon, the entrance inspection over and a pile of papers for us to sign being passed back and forth to all parties. We wrap up the signature process and Mr. Delannoy begins handing us a new stack of papers, one by one. I am at first confused, as I thought we'd finished the paperwork. Turns out these were not more papers to sign, but rather a small gift instead.
The first paper was a map of the local area he had printed off. He had marked where our house was on this map. The second was a transit system map which he had also printed off. On this he had already looked up how to get to my office from the new apartment using the transit trip planning system. The rest of the papers were various bus and train schedules and routes, on each of which he explained which stop was nearest the house and where to get off.
It was there and then that I realized that our new landlord didn't just pick us to rent the place, but actually liked us, and cared enough to make sure we knew how to get by in our new surroundings. I've never had a landlord that cared any further than the money that comes in each month. Up to this point we had told him we could even pay him on the day of signing. This was overwhelming, as it's tough being in a country alone, and he I think he knew just how tough from experience.
As it turns out, Mr. Delannoy would prefer that payments be made by automatic bank transfer on the 3rd of each month, instead of by cheque, and that he was willing to trust us to provide proof of insurance soon. It's hard for me to accept that he is so trusting and blatantly kind, but at this point I am not in a position to question the nature of a new friend.
We have a few more days to sort everything out, which is welcome breathing room. In the end, this new landlord is a gift, and it would have been impossible to manage any of this without his kindness and understanding. For all the frustrations and run-arounds we've had in the last year trying to get here, it's incredibly heartening to find a decent, caring person along the way.
Among many lucky breaks we've had along the way, our new landlord is one of them. As we traveled to the new place today to do the entrance inspection and sign the papers my fears were confirmed. The chequebook that our new bank sent us, the entirely foreign and unusual chequebook that I was carrying with me to sign rent over to the new landlord, was in fact not a chequebook at all. It was in reality a book of deposit slips to be used at the bank. the bank had failed to send any cheques, but our lack of French failed to identify this lapse. This was going to put a massive wrinkle in taking possession of our new, nearly perfect apartment.
It has been my previous experience that landlords like to be paid for the use of their property. Paid upfront and in full. Showing up with empty hands and pockets bare was entirely embarrassing and incredibly stressful. I didn't want to lose this apartment. It has everything we need, and it's big enough to accommodate our things when they arrive. Better still, we can afford it. Or, we could if we had a way to pay for it.
Upon arrival we met with the landlord out front of the building and our wonderful relocation agent Sophie calmly explains we have no cheques to provide. Of course, the conversation happens in French as we follow in tow on the way to the parkade to see our parking spot. It is here that I expect the meeting to come to an abrupt end, and the large, grumpy looking landlord to walk away. Sophie finishes explaining the situation and he merely shrugs, motions towards the stairwell as he proceeds down while replying to Sophie in French. I am stunned and relieved that things haven't gone catastrophically wrong at this point, and he seems unphased by the news.
He shows us how to open the parkade door, points out the parking spot and mentions how the exit gate works. No mention of the fact that Sophie effectively told him we cannot pay him today, or provide any guarantees to the property he would be handing over to us.
Oh, did I forget to mention we also did not have the rental insurance secured either, as our bank is closed on mondays? The legally required insurance. Yup, on the surface of it we were perhaps the LAST possible people that he should be interested in signing the apartment over to. An accountant looking over a ledger of the positives and negatives of this deal would have canned it on sight. But like I said, our new landlord is one of our very lucky breaks.
The entrance inspection continues, and smoothly I might add. Sophie and our landlord, Monsieur Delannoy, move from room to room, gathering electrical meter numbers, noting the inventory and contents and generally proceeding like this was perfectly normal. I may not know a lot about the French, or anything at all to be honest, but I know that this is not normal.
It seems however that Mr. Delannoy has taken a liking to us. I suspect that at some point in his life he has lived overseas, and as a result knows how challenging it can be to get setup. During our initial interview over the weekend, upon learning that we had recently moved here and spoke only English, our landlord began speaking English with us and shook off his otherwise gruff and imposing exterior. He and he wife chatted in French and he related that they knew a friend, that lived only a few blocks from the building, who taught middle school and spoke English. They suggested that she might be able to help us with our French and would introduce us. At the time I should have taken that as a signal that we had already been accepted, but I was nervous and didn't pick up on it. I was just happy he spoke English.
Flash forward to this afternoon, the entrance inspection over and a pile of papers for us to sign being passed back and forth to all parties. We wrap up the signature process and Mr. Delannoy begins handing us a new stack of papers, one by one. I am at first confused, as I thought we'd finished the paperwork. Turns out these were not more papers to sign, but rather a small gift instead.
The first paper was a map of the local area he had printed off. He had marked where our house was on this map. The second was a transit system map which he had also printed off. On this he had already looked up how to get to my office from the new apartment using the transit trip planning system. The rest of the papers were various bus and train schedules and routes, on each of which he explained which stop was nearest the house and where to get off.
It was there and then that I realized that our new landlord didn't just pick us to rent the place, but actually liked us, and cared enough to make sure we knew how to get by in our new surroundings. I've never had a landlord that cared any further than the money that comes in each month. Up to this point we had told him we could even pay him on the day of signing. This was overwhelming, as it's tough being in a country alone, and he I think he knew just how tough from experience.
As it turns out, Mr. Delannoy would prefer that payments be made by automatic bank transfer on the 3rd of each month, instead of by cheque, and that he was willing to trust us to provide proof of insurance soon. It's hard for me to accept that he is so trusting and blatantly kind, but at this point I am not in a position to question the nature of a new friend.
We have a few more days to sort everything out, which is welcome breathing room. In the end, this new landlord is a gift, and it would have been impossible to manage any of this without his kindness and understanding. For all the frustrations and run-arounds we've had in the last year trying to get here, it's incredibly heartening to find a decent, caring person along the way.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Expatriated
Officially I became an expatriate the moment I landed here, but it is only now that it's really sinking in I suppose. This may be in part due to the fact that we now officially have a house here in this country, and we must begin to make it home. Though I think that is only a small part of it.
In truth I suspect that it stems from the fact that I have come across the threshold of the longest point I have ever been outside of Canada. Apart from various vacations, a week here or two weeks there, I have never lived outside of my home country. This is something that, while on the surface is scary, is infinitely exciting to me. Life in Vancouver had become mundane, and my career stagnant, but here everything is new again.
We sign the papers for our new place tomorrow, and begin the difficult duty of completing simple tasks; purchasing a bed and small household items. To be honest, we aren't even sure where to shop for these things. It takes a great deal of effort simply to learn the basics here. At some point these sorts of challenges will be second nature, and even the language barrier will begin to fade.
And just as we begin to settle in, in the same span that I have been here, a mere 3 weeks, I will leave again. I've been asked to take over editorial responsibilities for a US based studio within the company. This is one of the many exciting aspects of my work that I look forward to.
Essentially I will be traveling to this studio and acting as a direct representative of HQ. My job will be to make things work, solve some tough problems and help the studio meet some serious goals. I am no longer working on a small scale, with responsibilities limited to the course of a project or a mechanical problem. I am now a corporate troubleshooter, hired to work on problems spanning an entire studio or the corporate issues as a whole. This excites me.
This trip, while "live fire", will thankfully not be solo. In this case I will be traveling with my manager. He will be making the introductions, showing me the ropes and generally acting as training wheels. While I know I can handle designer-related logistics and challenges, I am thankful to have the company of the Editorial Lead for this one, and I expect, much like living here, the trip will be packed full of challenges that in time will become second nature, but today they are more certainly a serious hurdle.
But this is what I signed up for, and I am loving that it is already everything that I had hoped for and more. Too often is expectation the eradicator of reasonable outcomes.
In truth I suspect that it stems from the fact that I have come across the threshold of the longest point I have ever been outside of Canada. Apart from various vacations, a week here or two weeks there, I have never lived outside of my home country. This is something that, while on the surface is scary, is infinitely exciting to me. Life in Vancouver had become mundane, and my career stagnant, but here everything is new again.
We sign the papers for our new place tomorrow, and begin the difficult duty of completing simple tasks; purchasing a bed and small household items. To be honest, we aren't even sure where to shop for these things. It takes a great deal of effort simply to learn the basics here. At some point these sorts of challenges will be second nature, and even the language barrier will begin to fade.
And just as we begin to settle in, in the same span that I have been here, a mere 3 weeks, I will leave again. I've been asked to take over editorial responsibilities for a US based studio within the company. This is one of the many exciting aspects of my work that I look forward to.
Essentially I will be traveling to this studio and acting as a direct representative of HQ. My job will be to make things work, solve some tough problems and help the studio meet some serious goals. I am no longer working on a small scale, with responsibilities limited to the course of a project or a mechanical problem. I am now a corporate troubleshooter, hired to work on problems spanning an entire studio or the corporate issues as a whole. This excites me.
This trip, while "live fire", will thankfully not be solo. In this case I will be traveling with my manager. He will be making the introductions, showing me the ropes and generally acting as training wheels. While I know I can handle designer-related logistics and challenges, I am thankful to have the company of the Editorial Lead for this one, and I expect, much like living here, the trip will be packed full of challenges that in time will become second nature, but today they are more certainly a serious hurdle.
But this is what I signed up for, and I am loving that it is already everything that I had hoped for and more. Too often is expectation the eradicator of reasonable outcomes.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Note: French Toast
As it turns out (and most already knew this), I have an incredible wife, whom today made me French toast on my lunch break.
My recent visit to "Breakfast In America", a small American style diner revealed me that French toast, much like French fries, is not in fact French in its origin. A quick glance at the menu revealed the French subtitle to this tasty treat to read "pain perdu a l'amercaine".
Now my french may only rival that of an infant, but even I can decode that they weren't claiming ownership over the dish. Rather, as a little research would have it, the meal is attributed first to the Romans.
So there you have it. Now, back to "work" (I am currently playing Alpha Protocol as part of a research project").
Au revoir! ;)
My recent visit to "Breakfast In America", a small American style diner revealed me that French toast, much like French fries, is not in fact French in its origin. A quick glance at the menu revealed the French subtitle to this tasty treat to read "pain perdu a l'amercaine".
Now my french may only rival that of an infant, but even I can decode that they weren't claiming ownership over the dish. Rather, as a little research would have it, the meal is attributed first to the Romans.
So there you have it. Now, back to "work" (I am currently playing Alpha Protocol as part of a research project").
Au revoir! ;)
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
The Sleep Revolution
I have been in Paris for a week now, in a tiny little hotel room with a fold out couch for a bed. It's not an incredibly comfortable foldout bed, but you wouldn't come to that conclusion if you'd looked at the hours I've been logging on it this week.
Over the past 15 years, and more intensely the last 7 or 8, I have had chronic insomnia. Or that is to say I thought I had insomnia. What I know for sure is that over that time I have averaged 5 - 6 hours of sleep a night. I was the type that would lie awake in bed for hours trying to get to sleep each night with little luck. That all changed when I moved East. Now I have trouble staying up late, even if I wanted to. It's all I can do to stay awake once it get's dark out.
For those who know me well, you know that I am a notorious night hawk, rigidly so. Years of trying to change my sleeping pattern yielded no results and mountains of frustration and exhaustion. So what happened? Well, that's a good question.
A number of events happened in close succession after I left Canadian soil to cause this radical change in my sleep schedule. The most obvious of which was the jet lag, and the exhaustion that comes along with any serious duration of travel. This knocked me flat on my ass for the first couple days, leaving me sleeping for 14 hours a night.
I expected the hearty helpings of sleep to pass quickly once I had shifted into the new timezone's schedule, but this is where the rest of the previously mentioned "events" took their toll:
I expect this will change a little over the coming weeks and months. Work will eventually become stressful, and I will travel as a part of my work, almost necessitating some form of caffeine intake along the way. that said, I've tasted the good life and I an not going to let it go without a fight!
Viva le sleeping!
Over the past 15 years, and more intensely the last 7 or 8, I have had chronic insomnia. Or that is to say I thought I had insomnia. What I know for sure is that over that time I have averaged 5 - 6 hours of sleep a night. I was the type that would lie awake in bed for hours trying to get to sleep each night with little luck. That all changed when I moved East. Now I have trouble staying up late, even if I wanted to. It's all I can do to stay awake once it get's dark out.
For those who know me well, you know that I am a notorious night hawk, rigidly so. Years of trying to change my sleeping pattern yielded no results and mountains of frustration and exhaustion. So what happened? Well, that's a good question.
A number of events happened in close succession after I left Canadian soil to cause this radical change in my sleep schedule. The most obvious of which was the jet lag, and the exhaustion that comes along with any serious duration of travel. This knocked me flat on my ass for the first couple days, leaving me sleeping for 14 hours a night.
I expected the hearty helpings of sleep to pass quickly once I had shifted into the new timezone's schedule, but this is where the rest of the previously mentioned "events" took their toll:
- I haven't had a sip of caffeine since I arrived. Not a drop of cola, not an ounce of tea. And stranger still, no desire to resume the habit.
- I am without distraction. I have left behind all of the things that would normally keep me from bed. No movies, no TV (at least in a language I can understand) and an internet connection too slow to stream anything.
- I have no work stress to think about. Work is amazing and wonderful, but it has yet to present me with a pile of worries and problems.
I expect this will change a little over the coming weeks and months. Work will eventually become stressful, and I will travel as a part of my work, almost necessitating some form of caffeine intake along the way. that said, I've tasted the good life and I an not going to let it go without a fight!
Viva le sleeping!
Friday, January 14, 2011
The House Hunt
Today we stretched out legs and our boarders and traipsed all over town looking for possible places to live for the next year (at the very least). While not all of our efforts bore fruit we did find a couple promising places, each with upsides and downsides.
The first of the day was the biggest we saw, being around 530 sq ft, but it was a little dingy and didn't have any charm. The other one though, which is much smaller (maybe 410 sq ft,) is really nice, and overlooks a monastery, but it on the 5th floor with no lift. Both places are a little outside of Paris proper, but the second one it in a great little place with an incredible covered market to buy all our fresh from the farm food in each day.
We put our names down for both, with the second of them being our first choice (for obvious reasons). Unfortunately that place already had another person express interest in it, so I'm not sure how that gets resolved. Maybe it's first come first serve, maybe it's based on merit, perhaps there is a gladiatorial death match? I dunno. Either one will be fine, and each have their upsides. I don't suspect that we will know anything until mid next week.
Unfortunately, despite having a reasonably productive house hunt, it was decidedly exhausting. Changing between car, metro and bus through out the day proved educational, but it also meant a great deal of walking. Upon arriving back at our hotel it seemed best to take a nap. I set my alarm for 1 hour, but rather annoyingly turned it off in my sleep without even flinching. So we ended up sleeping for 4 hours before realizing my error, and were forced to get up to go to the grocery store to buy dinner before it closed (or go hungry for the night).
Now, as I'm sure you are aware, 4 hours is a shitty period of sleep. It's long enough to get some deep sleep, but only just. Waking up around the four hour mark is torture, and took me the better part of an hour to really get out of bed, and I still don't feel well for my trouble. So, while we have food for dinner, I am in no mood to eat it right now. Oh irony, always the douche-bag.
The first of the day was the biggest we saw, being around 530 sq ft, but it was a little dingy and didn't have any charm. The other one though, which is much smaller (maybe 410 sq ft,) is really nice, and overlooks a monastery, but it on the 5th floor with no lift. Both places are a little outside of Paris proper, but the second one it in a great little place with an incredible covered market to buy all our fresh from the farm food in each day.
 |
| The view overlooking the monastery. |
We put our names down for both, with the second of them being our first choice (for obvious reasons). Unfortunately that place already had another person express interest in it, so I'm not sure how that gets resolved. Maybe it's first come first serve, maybe it's based on merit, perhaps there is a gladiatorial death match? I dunno. Either one will be fine, and each have their upsides. I don't suspect that we will know anything until mid next week.
Unfortunately, despite having a reasonably productive house hunt, it was decidedly exhausting. Changing between car, metro and bus through out the day proved educational, but it also meant a great deal of walking. Upon arriving back at our hotel it seemed best to take a nap. I set my alarm for 1 hour, but rather annoyingly turned it off in my sleep without even flinching. So we ended up sleeping for 4 hours before realizing my error, and were forced to get up to go to the grocery store to buy dinner before it closed (or go hungry for the night).
Now, as I'm sure you are aware, 4 hours is a shitty period of sleep. It's long enough to get some deep sleep, but only just. Waking up around the four hour mark is torture, and took me the better part of an hour to really get out of bed, and I still don't feel well for my trouble. So, while we have food for dinner, I am in no mood to eat it right now. Oh irony, always the douche-bag.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Paris: Lights, Love and Dog Sh*t
Paris has been referred to as many things over the ages; The city of light, love, art, romance, dreams and many other high-minded ideals that a city should strive to become. However the one thing that not many people will tell you is that it is also the city of dog shit. Seriously.
Now I haven't been here long, and granted, I'm not wandering around the upper crust places, but there is unusual amounts of shit on the street. Now when I say 'unusual' I mean it in the sense that a mid-western farmer might while commenting on the volume of wind during tornado season. There is a LOT of shit.
Back in Canada I supposed I had unconsciously become accustomed to not having to watch where I walked all that closely, and this is coming from a man who lived in the most narcotic saturated, needle infested part of the country for five years.
In Vancouver's Downtown East Side, where I lived quite happily for over five years, there is a wee drug problem, and where there are drugs used needles on the street are soon to follow. However, in Vancouver there are also people who wander the streets cleaning up these needles (yet i never saw one of them clean up any crap). Yet there isn't a poo-epidemic there, canine or otherwise (and for those of you who've ben to the downtown east side, you know it isn't the sweetest smelling some days).
Yet here I am, in arguably one of the world's most metropolitan cities and I must keep an ever vigilant eye earthward, which is quite difficult when even the most mundane buildings here drip of character and history.
So my advice to you, potential Paris visitor, is this; Stay on your toes while admiring the millions of sights to see and always take your shoes off when entering someone's home, because even the most eagle-eyed park stroller will eventually slip up.
Now I haven't been here long, and granted, I'm not wandering around the upper crust places, but there is unusual amounts of shit on the street. Now when I say 'unusual' I mean it in the sense that a mid-western farmer might while commenting on the volume of wind during tornado season. There is a LOT of shit.
Back in Canada I supposed I had unconsciously become accustomed to not having to watch where I walked all that closely, and this is coming from a man who lived in the most narcotic saturated, needle infested part of the country for five years.
In Vancouver's Downtown East Side, where I lived quite happily for over five years, there is a wee drug problem, and where there are drugs used needles on the street are soon to follow. However, in Vancouver there are also people who wander the streets cleaning up these needles (yet i never saw one of them clean up any crap). Yet there isn't a poo-epidemic there, canine or otherwise (and for those of you who've ben to the downtown east side, you know it isn't the sweetest smelling some days).
Yet here I am, in arguably one of the world's most metropolitan cities and I must keep an ever vigilant eye earthward, which is quite difficult when even the most mundane buildings here drip of character and history.
So my advice to you, potential Paris visitor, is this; Stay on your toes while admiring the millions of sights to see and always take your shoes off when entering someone's home, because even the most eagle-eyed park stroller will eventually slip up.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Day 1: The Qwerty Challenge
It is the morning of my first day, I am in the office and working hard to get a handle on things and overcome the various language based challenges that are part of everyday life when working in an office with a language foreign.
The first, and most important, is that I learned to use a computer on a QWERTY keyboard. For those of you who are unfamiliar with what this means, take a look at the top line of letters on your keyboard, starting with the "Q" key, and you will find the letters ordered to spell "QWERTY".
Most people in North America are entirely unaware that there are any other types of keyboard, with other layouts. It is only the more tech-literate people that understand that the world is filled with a wide range of curious keyboards, varying based on language and geographical location.
Now I'd given this some thought beforehand and made sure to pack a North American keyboard. Sadly, I had only given in a little thought and packed said keyboard in with all our other belongings, which as I write this still sit in a storage locker in the heart of Vancouver. Lack of planning for the fail. :(
So, for those of your nestled under your favorite QWERTY keyboard I have this to say to you: Treasure your keyboard! Love it like a small child, protect it as you would your life savings and cherish it as you do the very language you speak!
Enjoy each time you type a number and do not have to hold the Shift key to do so. Revel in your ability to enter passwords with complete confidence that what you thing your typing is what is actually hidden under each security asterisk. Love your ability to cheat and look at the keyboard ANY TIME YOU FEEL LIKE IT!
The first, and most important, is that I learned to use a computer on a QWERTY keyboard. For those of you who are unfamiliar with what this means, take a look at the top line of letters on your keyboard, starting with the "Q" key, and you will find the letters ordered to spell "QWERTY".
Most people in North America are entirely unaware that there are any other types of keyboard, with other layouts. It is only the more tech-literate people that understand that the world is filled with a wide range of curious keyboards, varying based on language and geographical location.
Now I'd given this some thought beforehand and made sure to pack a North American keyboard. Sadly, I had only given in a little thought and packed said keyboard in with all our other belongings, which as I write this still sit in a storage locker in the heart of Vancouver. Lack of planning for the fail. :(
So, for those of your nestled under your favorite QWERTY keyboard I have this to say to you: Treasure your keyboard! Love it like a small child, protect it as you would your life savings and cherish it as you do the very language you speak!
Enjoy each time you type a number and do not have to hold the Shift key to do so. Revel in your ability to enter passwords with complete confidence that what you thing your typing is what is actually hidden under each security asterisk. Love your ability to cheat and look at the keyboard ANY TIME YOU FEEL LIKE IT!
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Check, Check and Double check.
Now, I've moved before. I've packed up my belongings into various boxes and other such containers and relocated them to a new home. This is nothing new to me, however it's typically been moves measured in kilometers and international lines crossed.
Yes, this is this inaugural post for my soon to become infamous written log my exploits in France.
Some people would be a lot more freaked out about moving internationally, especially when the 'international' includes an ocean crossing. My flight leaves in roughly 41 hours, but I'm not terribly worried about it. I have never been scared of this move, this entire uprooting of my life and setting it down in a country where I do not speak a single word of the language doesn't worry me one bit. I caught the wanderlust a few years ago as I wandered Morocco and I never looked back.
Of course, by this point I've had nearly a year to acclimatize to the idea, so that certainly helps take the edge off of any jitters I might have had.
To explain, I should first bring you up to speed on a few things. I am moving for work, to change my career path and undertake a radically new and exciting role that until recently I had never even knew existed. Though the whole thing started roughly 1 year previous.
I was interviewed by Ubisoft for an internal trainer position. This in and of itself isn't a shocking departure from my previous experience, I've taught for years as a side job to my main Game Design Career. It was during the 2010 Olympic games that I was taken from my previous city of residence to interview with the executives at Ubisoft in Paris for said trainer position. As of this writing it has been 11 months since these interviews took place.
In the end, I was not chosen for the position instructing with Ubisoft, but I was offered a much better position as part of their editorial department. Ever since I have been struggling with paperwork, red tape and general confusion in my attempts to become a Parisian.
In only a couple days all of these problems will be behind me. My amazing wife and I will board a plane and find ourselves in the deep end of French culture. I am excited and exhausted all at the same time.
So keep your eyes peeled, as I expect there will be numerous shenanigans, gaffs, blunders and eureka moments, and I will want to jot them all down so as to remind myself I am not going crazy!
Catch you on the French side. ;)
Yes, this is this inaugural post for my soon to become infamous written log my exploits in France.
Some people would be a lot more freaked out about moving internationally, especially when the 'international' includes an ocean crossing. My flight leaves in roughly 41 hours, but I'm not terribly worried about it. I have never been scared of this move, this entire uprooting of my life and setting it down in a country where I do not speak a single word of the language doesn't worry me one bit. I caught the wanderlust a few years ago as I wandered Morocco and I never looked back.
Of course, by this point I've had nearly a year to acclimatize to the idea, so that certainly helps take the edge off of any jitters I might have had.
To explain, I should first bring you up to speed on a few things. I am moving for work, to change my career path and undertake a radically new and exciting role that until recently I had never even knew existed. Though the whole thing started roughly 1 year previous.
I was interviewed by Ubisoft for an internal trainer position. This in and of itself isn't a shocking departure from my previous experience, I've taught for years as a side job to my main Game Design Career. It was during the 2010 Olympic games that I was taken from my previous city of residence to interview with the executives at Ubisoft in Paris for said trainer position. As of this writing it has been 11 months since these interviews took place.
In the end, I was not chosen for the position instructing with Ubisoft, but I was offered a much better position as part of their editorial department. Ever since I have been struggling with paperwork, red tape and general confusion in my attempts to become a Parisian.
In only a couple days all of these problems will be behind me. My amazing wife and I will board a plane and find ourselves in the deep end of French culture. I am excited and exhausted all at the same time.
So keep your eyes peeled, as I expect there will be numerous shenanigans, gaffs, blunders and eureka moments, and I will want to jot them all down so as to remind myself I am not going crazy!
Catch you on the French side. ;)
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