I’m the shrink here, so I’ll dole out a bit of free advice for you: next time you decide to make an international move to a city you’ve never once visited, and return to an entirely new career after two and a half years spent eating and drinking your way through France and Switzerland, just stop what you are doing and seek professional help. And if you’ve convinced yourself that doing all that in the span of two weeks seems especially wise, just call an ambulance to come get you.

Between reverting back to a non-vampire schedule, getting dressed every day, learning the ropes at the new gig, sifting through a whole binder of HR regulations, and finding where Miracle Whip is on special, I’m all in.

All I can say is I’m the luckiest woman in the world to have been taken in by a bunch of co-workers whose kindness, patience, and helpfulness is beyond words. Plus, the bathrooms at my new office are nicer than the ones in my home. A pleasant change from hospitals where a plunger is often required.

My point today is sometimes too much change at once can be downright foolish. But that’s how I left my last life and it’s how I’m starting my new one. To quote a little known, yet remarkably entertaining book called Finding Me in France, “One of these days I’ll be grown up enough to realize that repeatedly choosing to live in a tornado has predictable side effects.” I’m still waiting for that day to come, obviously. And I’m still experiencing tornado side effects, as evidenced by quoting my own book.

But never mind I tell myself. Sure, I’m so off kilter that most days I wake up and have no idea what country I’m in or who that red-headed man lying next to me is. But then it all comes back to me and I simply settle into the panic attack and flop sweat and get on with my day. That’s just how I roll—one foot in front of the other, one adventure after another.

]]> http://www.findingmeinfrance.com/2013/05/17/storm-chaser/feed/ 9 http://www.findingmeinfrance.com/2013/05/13/easy-street/ http://www.findingmeinfrance.com/2013/05/13/easy-street/#comments Tue, 14 May 2013 00:25:25 +0000 Bobbi http://www.findingmeinfrance.com/?p=12201 Oh but Canada is marvellous. The convenience I tell you! Grocery stores and malls and shops open until the wee hours of 9 p.m., plus the miracle of Sunday shopping. A gym (with a women only section), dental and medical clinics and a hardware store just up the street. And words fail me at the discovery of a Mexican cantina around the corner. Sour cream and salsa for everyone!

I must say, the living location we scouted entirely online (within walking distance to just about everything including my new office) is proving to be a stroke of genius, which means it was all my idea. Compared to moving to a foreign country, it’s just so…well…simple. But it hasn’t been all roses and sunshine.

We’ve run ourselves ragged getting set-up. I haven’t seen much of Victoria yet as I’ve spent most of my time at Home Outfitters. Neil’s work computer is still sitting in customs in Vancouver. I can’t even imagine how frustrating this is for him. The only thing I can use to relate is imagining all my built-for-a-giraffe pants sitting in a warehouse across the bay. At least I’d make the local news—”Middle-aged woman survives dramatic Pacific Ocean swim only to be shot multiple times in a fracas with customs officials. Film at 11.”

At least the new digs are working out well. I live in a veritable den of swank, two toilets and all—the key to avoiding divorce proceedings. Now I had seen it online, that is, most of it. The floor plan showed a large laundry room (as opposed to a washer and dryer crammed in a Swiss bathroom), so of course I’d been dreaming about a return to giant Canadian machines. My number 1 fantasy? Tossing in a duvet, back on the bed in under 2 hours.

So imagine my delight at opening the door to this mess…

A Swedish washer and dryer with half the capacity of my French set. There’s no fluff dryer cycle, you need training at NASA to figure out how much detergent to use and a personal bodybuilder to get the washer door open. Cripes, you could land a jet in the laundry room and this is what they went with. I mean what are the odds of being stuck with tiny euro machines in Victoria, B.C.? Turns out, pretty good. Irony is the theme du jour.

Just goes to show you: you can’t have it all. Out of respect for those around the world who have no fresh water, and those who still have to wash clothes by hand, I’ll keep my big yap shut. I’ll have plenty of time to practice gratitude and compassion all day Saturday and Sunday—I’m washing sheets and towels.

PS If you subscribed to the blog and haven’t received a confirmation email, be sure to check your junk/spam folder, it may be there. 

Cripes, I’m worn out from just watching them zoom past me as I sit on my marbled arse reading a book and scarfing down a load of chocolate with a chardonnay chaser. I thought Victoria was chock full of doddering biddies who take tea precisely at 5 with a generous nip of brandy and giant triangles of gâteau, you know, my people.

Instead I’ve been thrust into a bunch of supermodels poised to play beach volleyball between kayaking competitions and triathlons, done while pushing a stroller carrying their third child. A far cry from Vevey, where the gals take a Sunday stroll along Lake Geneva puffing a Marlboro, sporting designer sunglasses, 5 inch heels, painted on jeans, and carrying a bag of croissants and an open bottle of wine.

I guess living in a place where the weather favours outdoor activities leads to an obsession with fitness. And I suspect it’s already rubbing off on me. Why I myself have several blisters caused by the walk from my apartment to the asian street food restaurant and the Shopper’s Drug Mart downtown.

I’m on the hunt for snazzy sneakers and I walked out of the Gap the other day with a pair of “zen pants”, apparently just the thing to wear as proof that you are indeed an Olympian (there are 6 in my building alone). Truth be told, I only bought the damn things because they were long enough and I needed a new pair of sweatpants—I wore a hole right through my old ones. Sitting around for 2 years is not for the faint of bum.

Anyway, just as I did in France and Switzerland, I’ll do my best to adapt to the new culture in which I find myself. I’ll join the gym this week and see what I can do to whip this old broad into shape. But that’s where it ends.

As soon as I rustle up a BBQ, I’ll also rustle up a bloody big slab of Canadian steak to sizzle and a potato the size of my head smothered in sour cream. But I’ll wear the yoga pants while I’m eating it, and if anybody raises an eyebrow I’ll just say I need the protein and carbs because I’m in training—training for god knows what, but that’s my story and I’ll be sticking to it.

ps If you subscribed to the blog and haven’t received an email confirmation, check your junk folder, it’s probably there.

Now. Let me be clear: I will not be making another international move anytime soon. In fact, I’m thinking about boycotting a move from my bed for at least 3-5 days.

The actual journey began with a first class flight on Lufthansa, booked on frequent flyer points—seats that morph into beds, caviar, fine wine, inflight service that was out of this world, the works. We even had personal escorts who held up signs with our names on them as we arrived in Geneva and Vancouver, and provided a limo ride from one terminal to the other and hauled luggage off carousels. Air Canada can kiss my arse.

Then there was a long wait in customs that led to racing through an airport lugging 2 hockey bags, 3 suitcases, 2 knapsacks, and a set of golf clubs. It ended on a sardine can with two propellors, delayed for 30 minutes (for a 15 minute flight) while they figured out how to stow a 260 pound Great Dane in the hold. I believe I’ve mentioned what Air Canada can do.

Then there was the 9 hour time difference and the mother of all jet lags; the hotel room with a guy next door who held a 6:00 a.m. Skype session, complete with screaming and swearing; Neil’s endless battle with DHL to deliver his computer being held in customs in Vancouver (the battle continues); the apartment (which is indeed a good one) that had no heat on our first night—mmm, nothing says lovin’ like wearing your coat to bed.

What else? Oh yes, the rented couch that’s like sitting on a giant marshmallow (they threw in the crusted on food and brown stains for free); the frantic purchasing of all things electric like a toaster, a kettle, a hair dryer, and so on, plus, a fancy schmancy coffee maker (he cooks, so who am I to judge?). I’m not even going to bore you with the rest (e.g. having to throw out my sneakers at the last minute due to a dog poop disaster, a parting gift from Europe), just know that there was much more to contend with.

But it hasn’t been all bad. You can’t turn around here without crashing into a case of Miracle Whip, and while the general salesforce here seem to believe they are Valley girls and boys, they are indeed speaking some form of English. Like totally.

Anyway, despite being a victim of the move, I shall soldier on in setting up this new life. This morning I’m off to tackle the most important task of all: my head. The long dreamed of Canadian haircut is upon me. Cripes, I hope he doesn’t mind cutting my hair while I collapse forward for a nap on my knees. Someone, anyone, remind me of all this in about 10 months when I start yakking about how amazing it would be to live in Japan.

You know, someone asked me the other day if I thought the project was a success. I suppose the answer depends on how you define success. I’ve had unforgettable experiences, and met equally unforgettable people. I’ve seen many beautiful places, and while I haven’t seen a fraction of what I’d like to see in this part of the world, Europe’s not going anywhere and I know I’ll be warmly welcomed back. Overall, I’m far better for it, despite the deleterious effects on my derrière.

All Frenchy fun aside, perhaps the very best thing about this escapade has been sharing it with all of you. Your comments (now numbering over 7000) and support and encouragement have made the journey that much more joyful. And I’m undone by the positivity you’ve offered me for this next phase.

Of course many people say blogging is a grand exercise in narcissism—maybe so. For me, it’s been about connecting and sharing and keeping a record of something I always wanted to do. So, to those who think me overly self-absorbed: piss off. I’m too busy writing about myself to pay you any mind.

Alors, it is time to bid adieu to Vevey, which shall go on being splendid without me. And it is time to say so long to all of you, at least for the time being. I have no idea what my life will look like on the other side. Whether I’ll have time to blog or not, whether I want to continue to live online or not, remains to be seen. I don’t know if there’s another book to be written, which reminds me—go buy the first one, this move won’t pay for itself.

My best guess is there will be random posts in the future (or I may indeed blog regularly, who knows). If you stay subscribed, you’ll automatically know when there’s a new post, and if I slip from relative obscurity into complete obscurity, you simply won’t receive any notifications—easy peasy lemon squeezy. Or you can sign off with my thanks for a job well done. Either way, regulars and lurkers alike, come out today and say bon voyage.

I’ve found more joy writing Finding Me in France than I ever thought possible. And it seems like you’ve had more than a few laughs at me and with me. I know how much you all love to laugh (the key to a long and happy life), so today I turn it over to one of my favourite funny ladies to say what’s in my heart.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PjQuZCTLAv4

Now I did say triumphant, and I did so quite deliberately…

Triumphant (adjective)

• feeling or expressing jubilation after having won a victory or mastered a difficulty

No, I have not conquered the French subjunctive tense. That battle was conceded long ago—the French language won, I lost, and we live peacefully ignoring one another. The victory at hand is a much larger one: a fundamental piece of the Finding Me in France puzzle that has fallen into place.

Just to circle back to the beginning of this whole mess, I had two main goals when I started. The first was to live in a foreign country. Check. Well, double check, since I wound up living in France and Switzerland—how overachieving of me. The second was to figure out my next career move, which brings me to my point: Check.

No specific details will be given here—not now, not ever. Just because I chose to splash my life all over the internet doesn’t mean I’m willing to drag other people along for the ride (present company excluded), especially those kind enough to offer me a job.

The bottom line is there’s yet another new life waiting for me in Victoria—one that now comes with an interesting and challenging opportunity to work at something I’m passionate about (programs for kids); a chance to make a difference in the world while making a living. Sure, the living is far less than I could make doing fancy pants doctor things, but I can’t say much of anything I’ve done in the last few years has been motivated by money, so why start now?

Naturally, so much change all at once may test one’s sanity. Apparently, I’ll be expected to demonstrate a wealth of competencies in order to earn my keep, and I’ll probably have to get dressed on a regular basis, to which I say, “Steady the bus, old girl. One hurdle at a time.” I shall find comfort in knowing that Rusty can kick back a little after two years of maintaining the wifestyle to which I will now become unaccustomed. Naturally, he will still do all the cooking, as per our ironclad marriage contract.

While finding myself gainfully employed in the country right back where I started may not be the stuff of Napoleonic conquest, in my mind, I emerge from my crusade undeniably…Victorious.

(With thanks to Pippa for finding the right word.)

Regardless, I sat down to write my thank-you note, but I just couldn’t find the right words to convey my gratitude. I almost abandoned the whole thing, and then I got lucky. I found maybe the best thing I’ve ever seen on the internet, and rather than waxing poetic about my husband’s many gifts to me, I’ve decided to share someone else’s story—an ordinary couple who share an extraordinary love.

So, Neil, if you’re out there, you’re a first rate smartypants, a kind soul, and the best friend a girl could ever have. This one is for you: Click here, turn up the sound, enjoy, and then get busy with dinner, will ya?

This week I’m noting the union of culture and currency. To be sure, the Swiss are famous for a lot of things: watches, chocolate and cheese, the invention of Velcro and nifty pocket knives, but they’re also famous for banking and discretion, a handy pair given the amount of green floating about over here. It’s been interesting living a less is more life in a place where there’s a Rolls Royce, a Lamborghini and a Ferrari parked side by side outside my gym every other day.

This crowd may indeed have a lot of cash to play with, but they certainly don’t like to talk about it much, and they have interesting ways to deal with it—quite differently than the way things are done in North America. Here’s a perfect example: you can order something online, say shoes or clothing, and choose to pay upfront by credit card or by facture, meaning get your goodies now and pay later. It’s the first time I have ever encountered such fiscal faith.

I don’t buy much these days, but recently, I was reminded how unusual this is by two separate but related events. The first was a man who came to check out the television we’d listed on the local buy and sell site (can I interest you in previously loved Nespresso machine?). It suited him just fine, and when we asked if he would mind waiting a few weeks to take it off our hands, he said, “Pas de problème, Monsieur, Madame,” and handed over the full asking price with a promise to return for his prize at a later date. Not that we’d take off to Tahiti on the proceeds from a used TV, but still.

The second was digging through my travel papers and finding this …

I’d say with the state of the U.S. economy, it’s a good thing they have their deal with a deity in writing. I haven’t seen any Canadian money in some time, so I forget what our cash credo is, likely “Maple Syrup, Beavers and Hockey Forever” or “Queen Elizabeth Rocks”, who knows.

As for Swiss francs, there are plenty of bright colours and pictures of people like composer Arthur Honegger, and architect and designer, Le Corbusier …

but no mottos or trite sayings to be found. I guess they don’t need it stamped all over their bills. Everyone here knows how it works: “In Humanity We Trust.”

While many locales were up for grabs, we decided an immigration to yet another foreign country was beyond our energy expenditure capacity—code phrase for too bloody lazy. We have friends and work contacts there, and I hear that English is spoken in all the respectable hair salons.

For those who might not know a lot about Canada (Americans, I’m looking at you), perhaps describing Victoria as a mini San Francisco or Seattle with fewer guns and higher taxes will suffice, with apologies to my new home if the comparison is off. Of course, San Francisco, Seattle, and my bucket list restaurant—The French Laundry in the California vineyards—are just around the corner, and I’ll be plotting a plan for all 3 destinations as soon as I unpack.

Even before we moved to France, Neil and I talked about finding ourselves in what is apparently Canada’s most romantic and smartest city. In fact, it’s the only place in Canada we considered. Even though I have loved this French Foreign Legion tour of duty, I’m quite jazzed to return to the homeland, especially to the sea. Already, the encouragement we’re receiving from the locals reminds me that the red maple leaf on the Canadian flag could easily be replaced with a jolly red heart.

It’s a quaint city, full of gorgeous gardens; culturally diverse with friendly folks who are happy to welcome visitors. There’s a lot going on for children and youth and I’m hoping to put my passion for our young ones to use in the community. That or beg for a job as a cashier at Munro’s, “Canada’s most magnificent bookstore”. We shall see.

Now it’s no Newfoundland, this ‘other’ Rock, but the shovel and scraper free winters and year round golfing (Neil made me say that) will just have to do. I’ll have to hike world famous trails, trudge through the aisles of Shopper’s Drug Mart, look at the Pacific Ocean everyday, sample all the local wines, and eat locally grown and Asian inspired food on a regular basis, but I’ll manage somehow.

Anyway, here’s the thing: no matter where we go, joy awaits. Well, first, packing, Swiss exodus paperwork, Canada re-entry paperwork, a marathon Vevey-Geneva-London-Vancouver-Victoria travel plan, 2 days in a hotel then an empty apartment for 6-8 weeks while waiting for our possessions to arrive, integrating into a new town, finding a new career, then joy.

Oh, now I’m just kidding. One thing I’ve learned from my Big French Adventure is that joy can be found in almost everything, especially the challenging things in life, as long as you resolve to find it. I’m trying to see it everywhere I look—even in that mess of clothes on the floor beside that man’s side of the bed. Why just the other day I gleefully exclaimed, “Neil, if you don’t pick up this pile of joy in the next 10 minutes…”

Victoria, British Columbia
Photo credit: Brandon Godfrey

This interview required significant technological intervention—not some Skype chat in my living room, wearing a tailored jacket, slick shirt, and pajama bottoms. Instead,  a videoconference set-up found (after an exhaustive search I might add) in a business hotel in Lausanne.

Despite the system being the most advanced I’d ever seen, it was not advanced enough to have functioning audio. Alors, the time I was given for writing and reviewing the interview questions was mostly spent dealing with IT issues. I especially enjoyed trying to focus on a written assignment with 2 people debating firewall issues in French right behind me. By the time the actual interview started, I was so addled I could hardly remember my own name—not my finest hour.

But, like always, there are the positives: discount on the exorbitant conference room fee! 5 pounds lost in sweat! blog material! As for the technician responsible, well, after the correspondence that took place between us, hard feelings are hard to find. Here’s a sample…

Me:

“Hello, I will also need Wifi, will that be possible?

Many thanks,

Bobbi.”

Swiss videoconference tech guy (my best effort at an exact translation):

“Madame French, good day. I wish to offer my thanks for this information. With respect to the Wifi, there is no problem. In the room, you will be connected using linksys, without an ID or password.

Voilà, I have taken note that you will arrive at 4:30, this Friday, April 5, 2013 and it is with pleasure that we will welcome you to our establishment.

In the meantime, please receive, Madame French, our best salutations.

Cordially…”

Perhaps if I’d shown up in a top hat and tails, carrying a bouquet of roses for him, things would have gone smoothly.

Anyway, my rambling point today is that here and in France, you receive letters like this all the time from everyone—banks, internet services, rental agencies (“We remain entirely at your disposition for any information you could possibly desire. We present to you, Madame, Monsieur, our best salutations.”). I once got a letter from a grocery store announcing a promotion that finished with the same French flourish. So, half-priced melons and “we offer you our most distinguished greetings”, pas mal.

This is one of the many unexpected delights of living in a French culture: extraordinary courtesy in a time when “where u at?” passes for meaningful communication, as we descend the slippery slope toward the complete loss of sentence structure—where the verbs at?

It seems there’s no fear of linguistic atrocity in this part of the world where civility reigns, at least on the page. If only I’d taken a cue from the French in that interview. At the end, I should’ve said, “It was indeed the greatest of pleasures to meet with you today, fine interviewers, and I remain, as always, your indentured servant. I leave you with my best salivations and my most distinguishing features.” Next time.

ps  Speaking of next time, Friday I’ll be telling you where the next stop is on the Finding Me Express. Stay tuned…