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:

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.

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 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!

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.

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.

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.