Guadeloupe is still here.

I've been remiss in my posts. Guilty as charged. I have to ask myself if life is simply less interesting once you've spent some time Someplace Else or if I really am just that lazy. I like to look at it as just trying to fit in. You know, I will get to writing when I get to it but if yawning and organizing my vacation schedule get in the way so be it. I heard an Englishman who is teaching English in mainland France say, "Let's face it, the French don't want to work...and that's why I'm here, because I want to be a part of that!" I'm not sure they don't want to work entirely, although that depends on the individual, but I would venture to say that they want to work their way. Yeah well, they have as much a right to do that as Americans do to never get out of their cars in order to get food while working 60 hour work weeks for two weeks of paid vacation per year.
About fitting in, I think I know by now that I would rather fit in to the working their way thing. As my Aunt who knows lots of Worldly Stuff told me, in France, life is good. She was right.

Well then besides yawning and vacation planning there have been lots of interesting Guadeloupe style moments to share which simply weren't shared. Overall I sense some sort of slow marked change occurring within me. This was especially evident when I last touched down in Guadeloupe coming back from mainland France and caught myself thinking how nice it was to be home and in the heat and sun...what the?!?! Who am I? The metamorphosis becomes evident in other ways, day by day, and I am certain we haven't arrived at the end result just yet. No no, times, and my ways, they are a changin'. Take for example the driving. Before it would confuse me, confound me even, the methods over here. Now, I can anticipate with the expertise of a Nascar driver the movement of the car furthest to the right in the roundpoint. I know that driver will take that car directly across three lanes of traffic to make a left turn without batting an eye. While singing along to the radio even. I also gracefully maneuver my vehicle around those who stop in the center of the two lane road to... to....well that I still don't know but it's not important. I glide past these testers of my car's agility with ease due to complete mental zen on the road. I am a champ.

The shopping. I speak the language now, and I am not talking about French or Creole, mais non. I mean that it is habit now to look at every food item's expiration date and inspect the package for any sign of forced entry by tiny hungry beings who may now be residing inside. I don't wince at the pile of bananas hidden by a cloud of fruit flies, I simply change recipes inside my head and find the fruit that is not under a cloud that week. It's a cakewalk, once you begin to adjust.

The Game. I know the game. How to play the game is actually something. It exists. I know this because I discovered it in a fantastically funny book called Talk to the Snail that it does. The author Stephen Clarke offers 'Ten commandments for understanding the French', focused on mainland France and based on his ten or so years of living in Paris. Reading this book brought me to realize that it's not just me. There is in fact a game. In Guadeloupe there is that little extra island spirit add-on to the game which can create more of a challenge for mall wandering suburban babies like me, but I'm handling it. It is all about how you play. In his book Mr. Clarke offers examples of conversations he has had to demonstrate, and I would like to use this method of demonstration here. Just today I played the game:

A cafe, 11:00am. Sign on wall behind counter reads that they offer petit-dejeuner for a small price including one juice, one coffee, and one pastry. I ask for it. The reply is no, it is not available. I say okay, no problem, as I eyeball the coffee, orange juice and pastry in all their glory behind the counter. It was just that the time for the deal was over by maybe one hour, but they had not yet set out the items for lunch. So you see, pas possible. Very good. Mental ninja weapons out and ready, thank you Mr. Clarke:
Me: May I have a coffee?
Her: Yes
Me: May I have an orange juice?
Her: Yes
Me: May I have a croissant?
Her: Anything you want
Me: Okay I will take those then, thank you.
Minutes later as she took my money, presumably at the more expensive lunchtime price, she offered me the price of the petit-déjeuner "even though it is one hour past the time for that."
I thanked her and told her it was very kind of her, wished her a good day.

Essentially I followed the recipe offered up by the author of Talk to the Snail. I highly recommend his strategy if you ever consider going to France or a French department. It worked like a charm. I could have accepted her no and left and she never would have stopped to offer me anything else. I mean really, the deal was so over, I guess she took pity on me for not understanding.
See? Metamorphosis. Two years ago I would have (The Pirate likes to tell me that this is SO American) simply listened to the rules, and followed them, gone someplace else or settled for a meal full price or nothing.


I do love to talk about people who have struck a cord, and think you should read Stephen Clarke's books if you have a chance. He's very funny and intelligent, a killer combination. Plus his French is way better than mine and of that I am jealous.

Happiness Quotient in Guadeloupe

Months back, I received a message from someone who was reading my blog (!) and was also in the process of moving to Guadeloupe. Who knew anyone was reading this besides you? Furthermore, who knew anyone was choosing to move to Guadeloupe if they weren't being taken by a Pirate? At that time, we began exchanging emails and one half of Couple Moving To Gwada asked me a fantastic question:
What would you say is the happiness quotient of the people of Guadeloupe?

Here were my choices:

happy?
miserable?
welcoming?
stand-offish?

Now as I said this was months ago, and I thought about this for weeks. I wanted to give a fair answer, so I could not write about this on a day when the internet needed resetting three times and there was no wind at all and it was a million degrees and I had mosquito bites in places I couldn't believe they could get to. Not a good idea. I also didn't want to write while I was having my best moment here, after a fantastic day full of friends, because although that's positive, it's still not like that all the time. (It is more and more, but it's still quite lonely.) I wrote a bit. I saved the draft. Now I go back and look and it's interesting to see what I thought. Here it is, two months old view of the happiness quotient of the people in Guadeloupe:

"...happy, not miserable, and stand-offish, not welcoming. It's a blanket statement. I know...But at the moment it's my experience. I want to be clear though. To say that I find a culture not welcoming is not the same thing as saying I don't like it, or that I find the entire culture to be not nice. This is not the case at all.
The thing with living Someplace Else is that to a certain extent I think we expect that being from Someplace Else will aid us in making friends. Yeah, I've pretty much realized that this is princessy of me, because frankly, who cares? Does it make me a better or cool person because I'm from Someplace Else? No. BUT, It's a talking point, the similarity in that we're both here, but the interesting differences in our paths to get here. Right? As I'm finding, not so much. Or at least, not enough to break down the wall I find in the culture here. That is why I arrived at not welcoming."

So there it is. I wrote it. Each person I met didn't throw a parade for me to say "Congratulations American suburbanite for coming to reside on our island. Have a coconut!" Apparently this was disappointing a few months ago. Well, even a little time can change things I guess. I don't really think people are unwelcoming anymore. Why? I guess I realized that I don't organize a parade for every person I meet who is from somewhere else. Sure, I may be more interested in their story than the next guy, but that's my style. I've always been nosy. It's a gift until it ruins your own surprise party. This is a good example of growth in the first few years of living Someplace Else. Never get too set in your head about something because it - your view of things - may very well change.

When it doesn't translate...

..Or does it?

FIFA world cup as seen by the Girl in Guadeloupe

I may have heckled Oakland A's fans when they played the Red Sox at Oakland. I may not so silently have wished that USA would win the gold medal over and over again during some Olympic games. I also bought two Red Sox baseball caps for les Monstres. (which got them quite a lot of criticism from grown men in Disneyland - dude, the kid is 5 and he speaks French so back up, no really) ..and I MAY ...may.. have been a cheerleader in high school...for hockey. Go ahead. Re-read that. It's there. I said it. It's best to save the horrid details for an entirely different blog post. As it is, with that small line I suspect I shall be the recipient of The Pirate's famous smirk later on, followed by clever set-ups into which I will walk blindly, so that he can get some good punch lines in at my expense. So be it. This, my friends is what you do for love.

Despite all of this, I am not a sports fan. I don't follow any team. I don't idolise any player. I never had posters of athletes in my bedroom as a teenager. Just Michael Jackson's thriller poster. You know the one, yellow around the edges, he's all dressed in a white suit. I see now that a tribute to Joan Jett would have been far more explainable in years to come. Sigh.

Here I am - in soccer - sorry FOOTBALL - country. French football country. As the local paper accurately pointed out: what will have Guadeloupeans in front of the television more so than all possible road bike races combined? You got it: The FIFA world cup!
I have noticed many signs around town offering 'Football sur le grand ecran'...Soccer on the big screen! This is really something for Guadeloupe, which is not at all set up in the American sportsway, tv's in every corner of every establishment under all circumstances at all times hell or high water whatever you do don't begin a conversation that needs to be longer than this commercial....
So it's big, is what I'm saying. People are excited. Groups are gathering. Bets are being placed. Big bets, a friend has twenty grand on Argentina over France. Beers and rhum are being consumed. Women who don't watch are getting some free time from their pirates. Oops! Did I say that? I did. Sure, sometimes I take advantage and leave The Pirate to roar 'Aaarrrrrr' all day with his mates, but sometimes I'm happy to join in. Why not? It's social. It's fun, and it's a good mental challenge this year with the location for the World Cup being in South Africa. What I'm talking about is the vuvuzela, an African instrument which, when multiplied by thousands of people using them at once, sounds like a never silent angry beehive. I find it a serious mental challenge not to hear this and a challenge to focus on the game instead.
I enjoy the connection I find during this time due to the world cup. When I go on facebook there are comments and friendly eggings-on. Lucky for me I'm connected to a few big time followers so I can follow their status updates and be in the know. Great way to seem like you're into it, you know what I mean? I'm not fake. I'm simply trying to participate in a conversation with my limited knowledge.

As it heats up I admit to wondering how the US team is doing. Perhaps deep down I have a need to heckle. I need a team to cheer on so that I can really participate, instead of hearing the proverbial record come to a scratching halt when I start over-reacting to something I thought was live but was an instant replay. Sigh. I'm not sure how into it I'll get, because to be honest, what is more interesting to me than the match itself is how people respond to and support the teams. It might be a good way to get to know people, once you see who they're cheering for, maybe there is an interesting story as to why. Soon we'll be in San Francisco for vacation and I look forward to walking through North Beach, past the bar where all the crazy Italians watch football and drink expresso when the time comes, arms flailing, cigarettes smoking, fists pounding the tables in bad times and hugs and cheek kisses in good... Ahh...nostalgia. See? Even for a non sports fan it's memorable. Sports are like music - everyone can enjoy even if not everyone can play.

Tweetage Wasteland : Say Hello to My Little Friend

A re-blog of another blog. Because it's relevant. Although my French is (according to some friends) much better than it was a few months ago, I still don't really pick up on conversations going on around me if I'm not trying to participate. What I'm saying is, I don't overhear things. I tune it out. It's too much work. Do I tune it out conversations going on around me at the mall back home? Probably. That being said, I could overhear with greater ease something being said in English.
Since I'm not snooping on my neighbors conversations, I choose to spend my waiting time - have I mentioned that there is A LOT of that here - looking at stuff on my iphone. In the doctors office, at the post office, the bank, the supermarket, the school parking lot, in traffic, walking in the mall, at the restaurant. With the Pirate. Sad but true folks. Much like the writer in my re-blog, I have used the excuse that my iphone keeps me in touch. With who? With my family and friends back home. It provides an opportunity to communicate with ease, to understand jokes, to make snarky comments on peoples facebook posts. Ahhh, the simple things in life.
But what of real conversation? I miss it. I know as I post and read completely gratuitous things that I'm not truly participating in a conversation. I know that with every hour spent looking at a screen I am keeping myself from practicing French, and from meeting people where I am RIGHT NOW.
And you know what? I can't stop. I don't want to stop. I'm not ready. Perhaps I have not hit my rock bottom and I'm happy dwelling in my semi-reality; iphone in hand, laptop within reach, English language jokes a plenty to keep me laughing. Ahhh. Yes. No celebrity rehab for internet over-users here. Not yet. Hey....what's that? Is that a new app? Where ya goin'?

Tweetage Wasteland : Say Hello to My Little Friend

Why do the French call it that?! Confusion with candy and movies

I credit my love for candy to my father. He always had -and still does - a healthy stash of candy somewhere in the house. Since I know my mom reads these things, I won't disclose said location, although I wish I could because it's super funny. He's like Stan Smith with that candy: top governmental secret that nobody cares about except my mom. When I lived on the west coast, my father would use this crazy thing called the post office to mail me a roll of Necco Wafers just to let me know he loved me. Cute huh? What's even cuter is how here in Guadeloupe they have 'post offices' yet I've unveiled the fact that such locations are only fronts for people who need a place to hang out and say things like, "this line is closed", or "that's not possible". Hey, everybody needs a place to be.

All men candies are not all created equal. I'm still not sure if that quote is grammatically correct but whatever. Let's say that it is, and let's agree that it's true. All candies are not the same the world over either, even if we do share some of the same name treats. There are however some universal truths about candy:
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1. Off the shelf chocolate bars such as KitKat are better in Europe. Why? The chocolate. It's different. It. Just. Is.
2. Treats from your childhood were awesome. Really they were. But they're kind of like old high school friendships - when you try them again years later, more often than not it's a case of some things are better left in the past. Those dried up little pellets sold in cheap sandwich bags that you looked forward to so much as a kid? Skip 'em. Trust me. They suck now, and your friends won't invite you to fancy parties anymore if you tout them as excellent.
3. If the same candy that exists in Boston, USA exists in Guadeloupe, FWI, it surely does not have the same name. As they do with movies, the French love to give things that already exist with perfectly good names new names.

Cotton candy would be a good example. it looks like cotton. In French, this is even almost exactly the same word: coton. And it's candy. So we call it cotton candy. Easy.
It's called Barbe a Papa here. Yeah, like the cartoon Barba Papa, except the literal translation is papa's beard. Now, normally I will admit to getting hysterically agitated over the changing of movie names because they don't make any sense at all. But this renaming of a treat I happen to like...Barba Papa. It works. Nice one, France!

French women don't get fat? Not sure.

Random thought:
French women do get fat. That is, they can. And if I'm to make blanket statements similar to the title of the famous book French Women Don't Get Fat, from my perspective here in Guadeloupe:

French women do get fat. They smoke. All of them. They eat McDonalds sometimes. They DO shave under their arms.

More blanket statements:
I see that French women here don't seem to get hung up on a non Kate Moss-like body. They rock that bikini at any age, often sans top, actively moving around the beach. They go to anti-cellulite massage, and make bread at home in a bread machine. They drink wine and beer. They bring the entire kitchen to the beach, table, chairs, pot right off the stove with real food in it. Okay so that last bit is typically Creole family style, but we're talking French Creole, et voila.

What stands out to me here is a lack of over-doing anything. Working, for example? Never too much. Eating? Enough to satiate, maybe some snacks with the apero, perhaps a dessert at dinner. No Doritos bags being carried around. No Big Gulps. No extra large triple shot half caf one third skim two thirds whole chocolate sprinkled on top chocka mocha hava nagila lattes. McDonalds, yes, but I tell you, I swear the Big Mac is smaller here.

Now that I've adjusted to expresso insead of iced lattes, I have to say, I'm enjoying (most of the time) my gastronomical journey in the land of good yet not so plenty.

Interesting article on French women and fat on subversify.com. Like it!
Playmobil Wine Bar - get yours today !

The lives within our life

Les Monstres are a busy pair. They look after so many things each day, you see. For one thing, there is the entire planet of LEGO which exists in the playroom. For another thing there is planet Playmobil. From time to time I find life in the playroom carrying on without Les Monstres, which is kind of freaky.

I found Batman and not quite Robin having a conversation in a not so well lit playroom, alone.

Then I opened the window for some sunlight, and saw the body of a LEGO man on one side, and the house they had ransacked, and gasp, the body of an innocent Playmobil man on the other side. Jeesh. I have no idea what went down but the aftermath is clear.

"Batman, we've got to clean up this mess before they come back. I don't know what the hell you were drinking last night but you should not have driven that Batmobile home. Now look: we've got a dead comrade and a dead Playmobil dude. But that's okay 'cos we can take his house...the Lego dude though..jeez dude, get it together!"

Living in Guadeloupe, amazing things can happen even when it seems unlikely

The other day I watched an incredibly beautiful sunset over Guadeloupe, the island of slow moving everything. At times, something gives me pause and I feel my solar plexus relax and I take a deep breath and think that I really can get past the differences between here and home that test my patience and my morale. Like what? A few things:

The Pirate. He is extraordinarily patient. He makes me laugh my ass off, which helps tremendously. Laughter really is one of the best medicines.
Les Monstres. I'm attached.
The friends I have managed to make here.
Exercise, when I get to it.
New comments from strangers who are reading my blog. So cool! I know, dork alert but bear with me...

I have received a small handful of comments on my blog about living in Guadeloupe. The people leaving the comments are living here now and like me, they are from someplace else. They are learning French also, or at least speak English, although I can't speak to the level of French for all of them. The common denominator amongst us is the perception that living in Guadeloupe certainly presents some challenges.

Just the other day I was thinking that on some level I had lost the battle here in Guadeloupe. I was feeling that I had tried to befriend her, tried to work with her, and ultimately could not figure out how to exist with this strong, slow moving beast. I was feeling unequipped. Then I received the comment from Jack, a reader on the island who wrote almost exactly what I was thinking. Wow. Really? Someone who feels the same as me and doesn't just shrug their shoulders in quiet acceptance of things? Intriguing.
Suddenly, I did not feel so alone in my seemingly typically American stress-outs about Guadeloupe. Suddenly, I'm feeling that perhaps together those of us who are baffled by some of the culture here can come together and find some inspiration, recall the great points of Guadeloupe in order to stay positive and create a more successful experience. We could exchange learned information in order to save time and energy. We could drink Budweiser and eat steak and clean our rifles....not exactly...but you get the idea.
So in combination with my attempt to look for inspiration rather than despair, I think I'll offer up a meeting with the folks who have contacted me specifically about life in Guadeloupe. No, like an actual in person meeting - old school - I know, CRAZY but it could be cool. It could be awful, who knows. All I know is I'm legitimately trying to focus on the good. I'm trying to remain calm, to find the zen spot more often than not. I believe that I can find the balance point. I believe that I can adjust. Some. I still stand by my beliefs in some spots though: I still believe it should not, in 2010, take three months to transfer internet service from one freaking house to another. Not. Budging. On. That.

Bisous!
...see? leaving on a positive note already! Good, right?!

Meltdowns, gambling, and why can't shit just work?

Every few weeks or so I have what I refer to as an 'I hate Gwada' meltdown. I don't hate Gwada. I don't necessarily understand Gwada, but I don't hate her. She tests me. Constantly. She tests me and she pushes me to use a lot of something I don't have much of: Patience. No seriously, I missed the line for that. I managed to come into this life equipped with the minimum, but I do believe somewhere along the way I should have received a notice of some sort with a code or something, instructing me where to go and fill out forms and in return receive more patience. It never came. It was probably sent using La Poste in Guadeloupe...ba dum dum...I'll be here all week.

The most recent meltdown arose as usual from a number of small things building up and resulting in meltown. Small annoying things in summary:

-bank card has not arrived and I was told I would have it in a week, twice. It's been five weeks.
-Work still has not paid me. I have been working since March 1.
-I had to reset the internet twice today.
-I got a flat tire and had to go to four gas stations to find one with an air pump.

Things came to a boil and then exploded. The Gwada Fit led me to decide that our plans to build a home should not happen. No really, I'm frightened at the prospect of trusting my home to the evidently incapable hands available to us here in Guadeloupe. I mean, nothing gets done in time, if at all. Okay maybe nothing is a bit of an exaggeration, but what I lack in patience I make up for in dramatic effect.

Here's the thing: we need to build a home. Who wants to throw money down the weird island toilet every month on rent? I'd like to make it interesting though. I'll use that to cover up my intense fear of the house building ending up in unfinished, cinder block disaster. Let's place bets. Vegas style, baby! Once our plans have been approved, I say we place bets on the day we are able to enter our home and begin living there. We'll say the time-frame is from groundbreaking to key-using. I'll present this to our circle of friends and we'll see how many takers we get. Hey it's something to pass the time. Me, I'm saying right now that from ground breaking to key using will be two full calendar years plus three months. Boom.

What say ye?

'not really'... really?

With a recent trip to France mainland I found that talking to people in French is getting a bit easier. I've decided - possibly for the sake of sanity - that the stuff I don't understand is probably best not understood. You cut out a lot of crap, actually, when you don't entirely understand or speak a language. Things are right to the point, since you don't really have much more than what you need...not much small talk or embellishment available in the ol' repertoire.

What leaves me speechless, in addition to actually not having the words, are the things people say sometimes. 'Not Really' seems to be a common theme in people's perception of my life. Let me give some examples...

I've spoken to many people about the subject of adoption. This conversation begins in many different ways. It can start with where I've lived - San Francisco, and move from there to the gay community and how people feel about gay rights, including adopting children. Discussion around this may go on for a while before I say that I was adopted, at which point, inevitably, I get the same response, perhaps varying a bit from person to person: "Oh, sorry, I didn't know...well, I mean, you know what I mean, because they're not really your parents" and "Oh...well yeah, then you know what I mean, it's like, you're not really Jewish".
Yeah.
Here, I tend to try to make small talk with people around things I can easily talk about in French. So, family is easy. I'm a step mother. Voila. "Uh-huh", they say, "And so now you want to have one of your own, right?", or "Ah...yes, I see, and so you'll really understand how beautiful it is when the child is yours, because it's (normally they take a look around and lower their voice) it's ...different...when they're not really yours".
Yeah. Who are they looking around for, I wonder, someone not to offend? Intriguing.
It's presumptuous, at best, to say these things, especially when preceded by 'you know what I mean'. Actually, no, I don't. But I can infer. I can infer that you are lacking a certain amount of sensitivity or openness that I am happy to possess.

So, it kind of piled up in my head the other day, all this 'not really' business. If I were less happy with the family I have (all of it, my folks, extended, ma petite famille Guadeloupean, my friends) well then I might get really bogged down by the thoughts that 'not really' comments create. Actually I just find it really intriguing to be honest.
I mean, look at it this way, what if I believed what so many people said...what would be my place in the world? If I were...
Not really my parents daughter.
Not really Jewish.
Not really connected to the two little boys in my life, les monstres?

Where would I be then? Floating in not really land? Not connected to anything or anyone by strong ties that bind? Relatively identity-less? Pffff
Good thing I can look at it differently, eh? I'm a free agent. It's not the questioners or the clear-cut mold needers who decide who I belong with or to. Mais non, c'est moi.

In fact, I feel a bit sad for people who can't see past the connection of blood when it comes to deep love or spirituality, I really do. it's just, I wonder if they're happy that way, or not really.

Lesson D for Dengue a la Guadeloupe

As I type this I slaughter mosquitoes with one free hand using the mightiest of mosquito killers, the deadly red as I call it. It is an easy find here - see if I ever type that combination of words again - for just €9.99 in your local hardware store. Deadly red is a mini tennis racket in plastic and aluminum; rechargeable for your mosquito killing pleasure. Ours is red. I chose it as I felt it an appropriately aggressive color for the war against the mosquitoes.
Why so much talk of such tiny itch-creating things? One word: Dengue. Yeah, I caught Dengue fever. Don't know what it is? Here's a link to an extensive explanation by the CDC but I'll summarize:
Fever of 101F for four days, bones aching like the muscles are being pulled from them inside your body, achy joints, boiling hot one moment and shivering the next and sweating the entire time as if you are in a sweat lodge, zero appetite, a bit of nausea, dizziness, inability to move further than sofa and/or bed, total and complete discomfort of the most indescribable sort.

...and I had it EASY, from what I understand. I also understand that you can go through this a few times as there are a few different strains. Excellent news.

The upside? Nobody gives you any question once you've come down with Dengue. People offer support. It's no joke. Also, I lost those last seven pounds and as a consequence have a new-ish wardrobe on account of all the clothes I couldn't wear for the past ten months because I ate too many bokits and took a few too many aperos. Hey, I'm human. I figure if I chase the kids while they skateboard in the evenings perhaps I can even keep it off.

Ah...Guadeloupe... so much to offer, so much to teach me. I think people should get a special stamp in their passports after handling Dengue, you know, kind of like a Girl Scout badge. Bring it on, Gwada, bring. it. ON!

I really should have spoken with that farmer....

Remember that post about the farmer who lived behind the apartment complex we used to live in?
Here it is if you're interested. In short, the farmer seemed to have magic fertilizer because his plants grew so fast it was incredible to me. He also had pigs. Loud loud pigs. At times it was scary. I am not sure if you've ever heard a pig screaming, but it is one of the more disturbing sounds I've ever heard. At first listen in fact, you're not entirely sure that the sound isn't coming from a small child. Blech.
I'll get to the point: in an ironic turn of events, the pig killed and ate the farmer. True story. Sad story. Horrifying in fact. I've been wanting to post about it for ages but what with no net at the house and all....
Here's the link to the article in the local paper.
In English, the 300 pound-ish pig charged the 77 year old farmer and knocked him down. She killed him. She ate part of his legs and head. The nephew of the farmer found him when it was too late and called the authorities.
How frickin' horrifying is that??????
And to think I laughed when the farmer was in our complex looking for that pig one time, when she got loose. Eeek. My heart went out to the family. What an awful awful experience. Gawd.

Road watching, a Guadeloupean pastime

I can't help but notice how the Guadeloupeans love more than anything (except champagne, did I mention the champagne consumption? More than in France mainland combined, our fair island)...to be by the side of the road and watch life pass by. Cars, people, animals...
A friend of mine and I discussed this not too long ago. She was intrigued like me. She had spoken with a local woman about this street-side phenomenon, and it seems, according to the woman, that back in the days of twenty or fewer cars on the island, people socialized mainly by saying hello to those who passed by the house via the road. With fewer cars, there was less moving around, so where you were situated dictated your level of social interaction. Logic would dictate that you build your house close to the road in order to not miss any of the action.

My friend also said she talked with an acquaintance who is currently involved in the purchase of some land with her family. The land has enough room for three houses. Her family offered her the land closest to the road - first choice - this was extremely nice from their point of view. She didn't go for it and of course they all called her crazy. Imagine? Being able to be essentially on the road and turning it down? How will she keep up with things? How will her friends remember to pick her up on the way downtown? Indeed.

Yeah, well, I've said it before and I'll say it again: I'm drifting. Drifting between my American ways, involving and not limited to bringing my coffee cup (full) in my car with me in the morning on the way to work - and - being perfectly happy with the option of sitting on the porch watching the goats in the yard which overlooks the neighbors houses so I can watch what's going on. I know. It probably sounds like the equivalent to watching mosquitoes on bug lights in the deep south, but trust me....there's plenty to see.

The longer I'm here, the more I drift. The more I drift, the more I understand the enjoyment in things I flat out laughed at upon arrival. Seriously, when my friend asked me if I wanted to 'sit on the porch while you eat that banana and watch the goats?' I was shocked at my own rapid and genuinely enthusiastic response: 'Totally!' Hey, perhaps I'll soon be like the guys in their cars and trucks who I always seem to be behind on the road. You know, the ones who slow from 80k/hr to 0, stick their arm out the window in a seemingly pointless spot on the road, honk the horn, and wave and yell enthusiastically to their friend in the window or on the porch juuuust on the side of the road while they hold up thirty or so cars......
baaaaaaaaaa

We meet again, and this time, I'm employed. In France.

Thanks to the speed of Guadeloupe, I've all but entirely abandoned my post as blogger girl. We've moved - finally (insert under the breath compilation of curse words meant to drive home the essence of finally) to a new house in Guadeloupe. In fact we've been there for over a month, and my dreams of clacking away on my laptop on the sunny terrace have been pushed into the corner with the boxes we still have not unpacked. Apparently there are some necessary steps for getting internet at a new address in Guadeloupe, involving one where we wait for a letter from the internet company to arrive from Martinique so that we can then send it back, so that they can approve moving our internet service from the old house to the new. Really? Really. I may possibly have mentioned before the (lack of any) sense of urgency in Guadeloupe. Et, voila.
And so we wait.
It's been a good exercise really, because if we want to really use the net for an extended length of time, to research travel information for example, we need more than an iphone moving at the speed of Orange Caraibe. Generally speaking though, it's surprising what we don't miss once it's gone. I did however miss hurling my thoughts into the blog from time to time. I went old school and did some writing with a pen and paper. That was fun.

So we've got a new home, I got myself a car, and in a rather unceremonious sequence of events, I also got myself a job. I'm thrilled to have the job, and won't knock it for a second, but I will say that I was warned ahead of time about French administration, and boy were they right to warn me. I'll just say it's a bit like everything else in Guadeloupe - put on your patient hat. I'm able to write today because I've landed in Toulouse for some job training. Between Paris, where I changed planes, and Toulouse, I've already encountered two strangers who told me that I was the first American they've ever met who spoke French. I find this to be in contrast with the number of American people I know who speak French. Anyway, what still shocks me is that I get by with relative ease with the limited French I have, and I think that's pretty cool. A year ago I would have been hurting for communication in France.
It's nice to get this small blog blurb out of my system and onto the keyboard. But I really need to figure out what time it is, and where I should eat lunch. You know, the important things. Food and timing. Since I'm in the land of foie gras and other assorted duck products, I'm going to enjoy the local flavor and eat me some duck this week, preferably in or alongside some sort of red wine. Followed by something sinful and sweet which will not help with the size of my ass but I really could not care less this week. I'm in France! As my mother would say, "EAT SOMETHING!' I'll make you proud mom, really I will.

Perhaps some ruby red slippers would have helped

Ah the search for a home. To rent. To buy. Peu importe: it's still a hassle to search, find, lose. What's fun though is watching people show you a home they'd like to get commission for renting or selling. I've broken it down to three major types of sellers (keeping in mind this particular list is for renting, not buying) here on the island. I thought I'd post them in case anyone is ever looking in the neighborhood. Y'know, as a guide.

Type NMPWMP:
Also known as: Not My Problem, Where's My Phone.
This type of domicile recommend-er is best know for his/her uselessness beyond the showing of the space, accompanied by utter lack of follow through of any kind. He/she does successfully bring keys to the showing of the space, and will answer questions with some version of 'I don't know but I'll ask', or 'I don't know, and the owner doesn't know either'. NMPWMP will check his/her phone during the home showing constantly, most likely to connect with friends about the days goings-on, entirely unrelated to the showing of the home. NMPWMP is not to be expected to be entirely present at showings, so proceed with caution if asking important questions. NMPWMPs can move quickly or slowly. They come dressed well, and they come dressed in pyjamas while smoking hand rolled cigarettes. This is a slippery one.

Type NKSC:
Also known as: No Keys, Super Cheery
This type of domicile recommend-er is known for his/her cheery disposition. This can lead to an impression of effectiveness, but do not be fooled. Despite the cheery outlook, Type NKSC arrives on site often times without a key to the prospective home, or a code to access the large gate surrounding a residence. Legend says NKSC's have led eager families (including some women in skirts) in climbing tall barriers and peering through windows, all to access a residence without a key. Your viewing of your future home with an NKSC will be pointless: you will view more pictures of the home online than in person. Lesson learned: when you make an appointment to view a home, ask directly if they will have the keys or if the home will be open when you arrive. NKSC needs reminding of this small but important detail. NKSC does not in fact consider it an obstacle to have forgotten keys or codes.

Type ANGD:
Also known as: Appears Nonchalant, but Gets it Done.
This type of domicile recommend-er is best known for leaving you with a feeling of complete confusion. While almost on time for appointments, she/he moves slowly but not with purpose. She/he appears to have all the answers in an acceptable amount of time, and responds to your inquiries via phone within a day of the day promised. This is impressive, and unusual. In spite of all the good timing, ANGD somehow leaves you feeling entirely unsure of the validity of the responses due to her/his nature: nonchalant. One cannot be entirely sure due to the amount of nonchalance if the responses are real, or simply a going through of the motions. Normally in the end, ANGD gets the job done. Sometimes it's too late as your doubt was too much, and you moved on, as one would in a bad relationship. Proceed with minimal amount of caution but maximum amount of patience.

Madamoiselle, Madame, Miss, Ma'am

I worry in my sleep. I have little or no recollection of such worry each morning, but I'm sure of it for a few irrefutable reasons:

1. I grew up with a worrier as a mother.
2. I see the worry line between my eyes is markedly deeper each morning upon waking than it was the night before when I washed my face before bed.
Alas, perhaps my skin, in the middle of my 30's, has changed a bit. Perhaps I appear older than I did in my roaring 20's. Perhaps. The thing with getting older is that you - if you're lucky - do indeed get wiser, yet at the same time, you don't want anyone actually acknowledging the fact that you are older, only that you are wiser....than them, that is..wiser than they are.

In my 20's, if someone, say, in a retail shop, 'ma'am'ed me, I was irritated. Why? Because I worked in retail throughout high school and knew full well that when you 'ma'am'ed someone, the translation was: "You're an annoying customer and you're older than me and you always will be no matter how many fancy-below-Neiman's-price handbags you buy, lady".
And yet somehow, I survived the first instances of 'ma'am'. In my 30's, I'd like to think that I'm a bit less crazy, a bit more relaxed. And yet, when I see The Pirate coiling up into a protective stop-drop-and-roll pose in my times of worry, I think: maybe not.

The other day I was 'ma'am'ed. In French. So it's 'madame'. Sure, it sounds fancy and all, but to me it was clearly a signal of the man recognizing my age, especially since nanoseconds before he had adressed my friend, standing right next to me, as 'mademoiselle'. Seriously?
Now, like any normal worrier, I openly showed my contempt to anyone who within earshot. Classy, right? I was met with a lot of laughter at my level of disdain for 'madame'. I was told by French friends that is a showing of respect, or simply an assumption of ones marital status. I was told my American friends (male) that it's like 'ma'am', and that 'ma'am' holds the same meaning, and has more to do with status than age. I was told by friends both American and French - and female - that they agreed with me entirely and don't like when that happens.

What's the lesson here? Well, I checked dictionary.com for some objective explanation. Admitedly, I only found one definition referring to age:
1.a French title of respect equivalent to “Mrs.”, used alone or prefixed to a woman's married name or title: Madame Curie.
2.(in English) a title of respect used in speaking to or of an older woman, esp. one of distinction, who is not of American or British origin. Abbreviation: Mme.

Okay. So perhaps I stand corrected on this one, a little. What remains true is that most women, in my experience, really dislike being called m'am or madame, because for us as women, it symbolizes age. So there. We don't like it. Then again, what do I want to be called? Miss? Dudette? As I finish writing this I realize that actually, I don't care. Ma'am me if you wish, I'm over it.

want that shirt? go here.

On the shopping list: mice

Since The Pirate was being super sweet: offering to do the weekly food shopping AND wash the car, I supported his efforts in/took passive-aggressive control of the situation by making a list for him. I'm a great girlfriend.
On the list were the standard things: cookies, pasta, toilet paper, boric acid, cockroach spray, shampoo, mice.

Mice?

Well, I was trying to carry on my role as incredibly awesome and never stressed step-mother-like figure by listing some items for Les Monstres which I know they enjoy, like the little smiley faces you can find in your grocers' freezer. They're great in a pinch, with ketchup. Katsup? Anyway...in French the word for smile is 'sourire' and the name for mouse is 'souris'. Being as incredibly advanced beginner as I am in the French language, you can imagine the error in trying to list, and pluralize the word for smile...I speak English, so...I just...changed the ending and added an s. Easy, right? Yah.

If, by some chance, you were in the aisle of Carrefour the other day while The Pirate was shopping with my 'I support you'/passive-aggressive list, surely you witnessed him busting a gut as he came to the tenth item on the list: mice. And you know what the best part is? He totally figured it out.
And that, my friends, is because Pirates are clever.