Why I Hate Wal-Mart

Because our other Leap Pad pen cord was used as a leash to pull the Leap Pad around the house with, I was in the market for a new one. I found them very reasonable at gasp! Wal-Mart. I hate our Wal Mart. I hate it almost as much as I hate cockroaches. (And I do realize I didn't do the cockroach post, but I'm working on it.) The price was $24.88. I was running so very late , so when it rang up at $34.88 I just paid and left with the intention of coming right back for a price adjustment.
When I went back, the WalMart drama began. I was behind a car in the parking lot that had its blinker on for 5 minutes waiting for this other car to back out. Frustrated that I chose this aisle (because my special talent is choosing the wrong lines everywhere I go! Oh, and also having tall people sit in front of me at the movies.), I had no choice but to wait. But, in true Wal Mart fashion, trouble was brewing where parking spaces close to the front are concerned.

Facing our direction was a Kia SUV that had just happened upon the scene and stopped to wait too, but illegally. He was not there first and he did not even have his blinker on. Could he be so rude as to whip in a take the spot of the rightful owner who was waiting an eternity with her butt blinking? YES, he was that rude! He practically flipped the Kia to get it into the spot before the legitimate lady had time to take her foot off the brake.

It didn't end there. The lady actually pulled her car up behind the Kia and jumped out with a hot Mocha in her hand and started charging at the mullet-wearing Kia driver and his passengers. She was screaming and shaking the Mocha so hard I was a bit concerned she might scald her face. (Maybe it was assault with a deadly...or hot...weapon) She continued her banshee act, but Kia-driving-mullet-boy just laughed at her. Then she just got back in her car and went to find another spot.

PEOPLE! (Well, people of my particular town) Do you not realize that we live in redneck-gun-toting territory? This is not LA, but many people here have visible rifles in their vehicles (just in case they see a deer I guess) and a portion of those people are a few sandwiches short of a picnic basket. Albeit, most gun-toters don't drive Kia Sportages. But whatever. (I'm didn't say I wasn't the Drama Queen.)
Nerves shaken, I still proceeded into the Wal-Mart to get my ten bucks back. And, here's the main reason I hate our WM, everybody there was in their "best" pajamas. Hmmm...must be a special occasion. Oh yes, it was the day before Valentines Day. I love a Pajama Party, but with my close friends, not strangers in the Wal Mart. Even though people were shopping for their loved ones, these same people had them in tow and were screaming at these "loved ones", be it child or significant other, as if screaming loud and trashy is going to get the good attention. Those PJ wearin' screamers were buying cheap Sam's choice candy in mass quantities.. I can't take these people seriously; they were wearing the clothes they obviously slept in for the last week. Couldn't they at least upgrade to sweat pants?! I saw them in Woman's World for $2.88. The same price as the Sam's Choice chocolates. I also have seen reasonable prices on bras in Lingerie (if you could call WM undies "lingerie".) Bras are there to help us. Please use them, even under pajamas. If you can't put on a bra to go out in your PJ's, you shouldn't have freshly filled, polished and decorated acrylic fingernails. It sort of defeats the purpose when they are back dropped by dirty pajamas and grungy slippers.

So, making my way to the customer service counter, I tell them they overcharged me $10. They send a girl to go all the way across the store and investigate. Too bad for me that she walked like she was heading to her own execution. I moved to the side and prepared to wait.

You can't help but people watch when you are surrounded by the wierdest people grouped together in one shop-til-you-drop setting. I swear, in 20 minutes three guys came in to take jumbo size diaper packages back and get some money. They seriously all had mullets. They all wore plaid flannel shirts and black Levis. And all the diapers that came in were the same cheap White Cloud brand, with the packaging looking like it had been dragged through the yard by a Kia with a gun rack. I mean, they'd only be getting about $4 back! Suspicious.

Finally, the slow clerk came back after 20 minutes and reported that all of the Leap Pads were indeed $24.99, except for the one I chose. What was the difference?! Electronically, not one thing. Features different? Nope, exactly the same. But the one I chose happened to be green. I sarcastically said, "Isn't that funny, they're all that price, even the pink girly ones, but the green is $10.00 more. Goodbye!"

I left fuming, vowing I' would never step foot back in that store again.

Until I remembered I have pictures waiting for me in Photo...... Oh yeah, and we don't have a Target.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Vet...

Did I happen to mention my cat drama yet? Oh yes, I know I have, but it's worth mentioning again and again. Because it doesn't stop in this household, for some unknown reason. Skeeter, our kitty that survived the wheel of my minivan last month, seemed to be practically dying this morning when I got up. He didn't come running out of the laundry room with Blueberry, the new cat. When I looked at him, his mouth was open and he was wheezing. His eyes were drippy, and he was lethargic.
So, I went to pack him up in his box, and found out that my husband, who always throws away the wrong things and keeps the things I want to be rid of, hit again. He threw away the two cat boxes last week that I have been saving since July.
Skeeter is really docile and cuddly, never scratches or wriggles. So I put him in a topless box, and headed down the road about 2 hours ago. He jumped out and ran under my foot. I pulled over, picked him up, and tried to hold him while I was driving....something I yell at other people for within my own soundproof vehicle. I could have kept hold of him if his breath didn't have the kind of green fumes you only see on cartoons. I gasped and let him go. He ran under the back seat.
I arrived at the vet, got out of the car, called Skeeter, and realized there was no way he was coming out. I just started unbuckling The Toddler when Skeeter made a mad dash out the door. Lickety split, I was down on him like a rat on a Cheeto, as hubby likes to say when he needs to make me laugh.
Only, Skeeter was determined to get away. Five feet away from where we were was the main road through town with non-stop traffic careening by. I was determined I was not going to have to tell my kids I was responsible for another feline flattening. So, the only thing I could grab was Skeeter's tail. As I was grabbing for it desperately, I flew head first onto the pavement, to the horror of many passersby and the entire waiting room at the vet's office. I was on the ground, screaming Toddler strapped in the car seat, and holding onto my cat's tail for dear life, completely mortified at my position. I hid in the car for a few minutes, mustered up enough pride to get up and into the waiting room.
Hearing that the cat was open-mouth breathing, they rushed out to the car and got him, and brought him immediately into an exam room. The doctor said he has a severe case of pneumonia, and that I should get a feline AIDS/Leukemia test as well. I asked him if Skeeter has either, would he have to be put down? He said yes, or make him live in a bubble. I said, "Let's just treat the pneumonia, my kids cannot handle another cat death."
Meanwhile, I averted another death in the exam room. As we were waiting for the doctor to come back, The Lightening Fast Toddler (and I do not exaggerate), grabbed my keys out of my purse, found an outlet, and was 1 centimeter away from plunging a key into it.

Shocked that my bill was $105, I paid and started to walk outside. Skeeter went kuh-razeeeee, and pulled out every claw that he'd managed to get the Soft Paws off of, and dig them wildly into my neck flesh and arms, while the back leg claws ripped to shreds the plastic sack I was carrying full of his expensive meds. I dropped The Toddler's hand out of sheer pain, and then screamed because a truck was backing up and she is FAST. It seemed like minutes, but really only micro seconds, that I realized that I had to let Skeeter go (which meant certain death) so I could hang on to The Toddler.

Right then, a very caring young couple sprang out of their car and rushed to my aid. I never, ever ask for help with my kids from a stranger, but I was almost in tears and asked the girl to hold my toddler's hand. The guy got Skeeter and held his paws in a way that calmed him right down, and helped me get my crew loaded.

I flipped the box upside down on top of Skeeter, angry at him for making a potential situation a hazard to my child. No, it's not his fault, it's mine for not going and purchasing a cat carrier before I took him to the vet. But I just wanted to get him there before he got any sicker.

I'm home now, still shaking, and unable to do any of my errands I've already put off way past due.

Maybe I'm not cut out to be a pet owner.

What I Did During Summer Vaction (aka, Why I Didn't Have Time to Blog)

1. Got 3 rodents for the kids. 2 died.


2. Got a kitten. It had to be put to sleep after a week.


3. Got two more kittens.


4. Celebrated 15th wedding anniversary


5. Had friends from France come stay for 4 nights.


6. Took them to do lots of American stuff (upcoming story)


7. Back to school! One First Grader. One started Middle School.


8. The First Grader refused to go to school without morning drama of hanging on to door frames, sobbing, screaming and flopping around on floor.


9. During this AM drama, resorted to draggin the child out the door and not noticing the new kittens ran out.


10. I backed over the white one and killed it.


11. Hysteria. Guilt. Accusations.
12. Cat funeral that night.
13. Skeeter, the one left behind, in depression. Lots of cuddling for him.


14. Got another cat to ease Skeeter and Middler Schoolers lonliness.
15. New cat (Blueberry) peed on me while in my bed. Twice. On my new down alternative comforter. Peed on daughter's bed once, with the added bonus of poop.


16. Cat excommunicated to the outdoors.
    
    Can we say the word "DRAMA"?

In memory of Suki, the funniest, bestest hunting I cat I ever knew. I'm sorry. :(

Getting A Good Deal in France

What can you get right now for four hundred and eighty-five dollars? Three hundred euros, for one thing. The exchange rate at my bank last Friday was a whopping $1.59 per Euro.

Dining out is expensive in France, and many times the food is just mediocre, so we'll be eating chez nous often, and chez nos amis. Of course, when in villages or centre ville, we'll not skimp on sitting down for a break at a cafe' for some boissons.

Speaking of mediocre food, we were invited to a certain restaurant twice by friends. Each time we got the invitation, it was accompanied by phrases like, "It's so cheap! It's so good! It's all-you-can-eat, just like in America!" We went to lunch at Flunch. It was not cheap. It was not good. It was only the over-cooked, limp, sans flavor vegetables that were all-you-can-eat. It made Hometown Buffet look like a foodie hang out. We had a Flunchy Lunch. Don't be tempted, don't be fooled. You won't save any euros here!

So where else can I get some bang for my buck? I suppose if we have the need to go to a doctor or hospital, it'll be dirt cheap compared to here. Which reminds me of my trip to the opthalmologist in Toulouse.

One day we had a picnic with friends outdoors in the sunshine. As we were leaving to go home, my eyes starting tearing up and turning red. By the time we got back to our flat, water was pouring out of them and I could barely keep my eyes open. Later that night, the pain was so severe, I had to keep a cold wet washcloth on them and moan in agony. This was pre-Lasik, so I had to take my contacts out, rendering me as good as blind. I managed to get a couple hours sleep, but woke to crusty eyes, painfully red, and itchy. Classic pink eye symptoms.

A friend made an appointment for me with an opthalmologist. She warned me that it was very expensive without health insurance. We knew this was a risk we were taking living over there without employment or benefits. But I had to go. I needed a prescription for eye drops asap.

She told us which bus to take to get there and as she is a very sweet person, she even met us there to make sure everything went smoothly. I entered the office, which strangely resembled an apartment living room. The doctor invited me into the exam room, which was also her personal office. Wearing corrective lenses since I was twelve, I was no stranger to eye exams or pink eye. The exam started off familiar enough, but then came the confused exclamations from the doctor. She seemed seriously unable to understand why my eyes were red and burning. She kept mumbling and sighing as if I had the first case of pink eye she'd ever seen.

She asked me what I did the day before. I told her we had a picnic with friends. She asked me if I got anything in my eyes. No, I did not (Wouldn't I have already put two and two together on my own?) But then my friend, who was in the exam room with me, piped up in an effort to help and said, "But wait, you made salsa for the picnic. Maybe you got some in your eyes!" No, I did not, I exclaimed and rolled my eyes, mentally.) Then the doctor says, "Hmmm....I think that indeed you burned your eyes when you made salsa. It was from the poivrons. Yes, that explains it now."

No, that doesn't explain it, I was screaming in my head. But I calmly explained that I did not put poivrons in my salsa. Nor would I ever put bell peppers in my salsa because what you put in salsa is chilis. What I normally put in my salsa is jalapenos. And yes, I did have a terrible jalapenos vs. eyes experience. But as I could never find them in France, it was impossible that they were the cause of this pain and suffering!

The doctor looked genuinely flabbergasted that I was not accepting her explanation. So then she said, "You said you were at a picnic. It was sunny, non? Did you wear sun glasses?" Yes I did. "Did you look at the sun?" she asked. Um, no. But as I also apparently put bell peppers in my salsa and flung it into my eyes without memory of it all, maybe I did look at the sun?!

"That's the explanation", she said again. "The sun burned your eyes because I'm sure your sun glasses are not good enough, and you must have been looking at it. I will give you a prescription for drops"....blah blah blah.

She got up and walked over to her desk to fill out the paperwork. She gasped when I told her I did not have insurance and I would be paying for it with cash. She said, "But, you will have to pay 100%!!!", horrified at what that would mean for me. She scared me. She scribbled on her papers and then stated the amount with reluctance. I had to ask my friend to make sure I had understood correctly.

It amounted to 21 dollars.

I gleefully paid the money, left, and told my friend that would have cost $120 minimum at my opthalmologist back home.

I got the same treatment from the pharmacist when I told him I didn't have insurance. The drops that cost me $40 here, cost $3 that day in the Toulouse pharmacy. The Gucci sunglasses I purchased later, to replace my inferior ones that caused my eye trauma, did cost me, however. Still, it amounted to the price of the American eye doc, no Guccis included.

I really don't want any of us to have to see a doctor during our month in France, but if we do, we shall receive a bargain...even at full price.

What's Wrong With France?

As you know, I am having technical difficulties, but I can still read and Google just fine. I just got done reading and celebrating the newly famous (but with-me-from-the-beginning) My Inner French Girl's latest post. She has been happily outed by New York Times!

It got me wondering how one would find out that their blog was mentioned in the media. Well, I decided to Google "cassoulet cafe blog" to see if anyone besides my blogging buddies have ever heard of my blog. The only thing that came up was my blog and one other mention. It is a button on the side bar of La French Page website. That in itself is not interesting. What is interesting is the description of my blog. It goes like this:
Cassoulet Cafe Blog: An American's View of What is Wrong With France.

While I appreciate the link, I'm sort of shocked with the description. To set the record straight, I think that I show what's wrong and right with France.

Now after reading the NYTimes article on freebies thrown at beauty bloggers, should I expect some free cassoulet thrown my way? All in the name of reviewing, bien sur! Or better yet, maybe a cassoulet meal at a renowned cassoulet restaurant in Toulouse or Castlenaudary during our stay?

Something tells me the people at Spanghero or La Cave au Cassoulet don't read Cassoulet Café Blog. ;) I'm glad you do!

Une Autre Point de Vue

Another point of view.

I just received an email from a dear friend of mine. She's French and grew up in the South of France, near Toulouse, but now lives in Paris.

She's lived there for nearly four years now, after marrying a native Parisien.

I think my friend fits in very well in Paris. She dresses like a true Parisienne, she lives like one, she appreciates the culture and everything Paris offers. She loved the idea of Paris....before she moved there. But an image in our mind is often much different than the one that comes to fruition later. As is the case with my dear friend.

No, she is not in a bad marriage. It's just that after a few months, the honeymoon phase of living in Paris wore off, and real life settled in quickly. Living in a minuscule apartment with sky-high rents in the suburbs of Paris was a start. Then the daily commute on public (often striking) transportation to an office job working too many hours under a chauvinist pig boss, making far too little money to indulge in a daily macaron and chocolat chaud at Laduree. Then the reality of having to make all new friends in a place where a "southern accent" is ridiculed, even though that seems to be where the sun hides itself from Paris. Enduring it all without family near by.

The Daily Grind can happen anywhere. Any place can become humdrum. This makes me think of the saying we all grew up with; the grass is always greener on the other side. Or the version I recently heard: the grass is always greener over the septic tank.

I'm not saying Paris should be compared with waste water treatment, but sometimes life gets in a rut as we go through the routine of work/sleep/play no matter where we live. Moving may help put some excitement into our lives and give us some much needed change, but at the end of the day, we still have to get the mundane things done and this is when the fantasy starts to fade.


*This was not intended to rain on any one's party, so to speak. I don't want to discourage any Paris dreams, I'm just reflecting on my friend's situation and trying to put myself in her shoes. It's also a moment for me to do a reality check and remember that picking up and moving my family far away didn't (and won't) make my life transform into a perfect fairy tale.

Tahiti

With several family members and friends moving to/going to/coming back from Hawaii, and having nasty gray, rainy, cold days here....and talking to friends in France who are having the same weather as us......I said to Hubby yesterday, "Why the heck are we going to France for a month, and not Tahiti???????!!!!!!!" I'll take Hawaii for a month as well, since I've never actually been to Tahiti and I love Hawaii.

I feel out of love with France right now and am longing to go someplace warm and tropical. And someplace where the dollar actually has some value. I long to be back on the beach, soaking up that warm, healing Hawaiian sun. I long for a Maui Sunset. I need a Mai Tai from Aloha Mixed Plate, garnished with a purple orchid. I want to eat pineapple until my mouth gets raw. I want to hear waves lapping against the shore. I want to be tan.

So, my dear readers, does anyone want to make me feel better for choosing to spend a month in a climate the same as mine here, spending way too much money just to buy groceries because our dollar is worth nothing now, and paying $7 gallon for essence (gasoline)?! It's only $3.98 right now on the Islands.

Wahhhhhhhhhh. I know.

You're A Corker!

As I read La Belette Rouge's list of what she was going to buy in a Paris Pharmacie, it made me think of what I went into the pharmacie for two years ago, the last time I was in Paris. LBR's list was so exotic, chic and trés interesting. I never really spent much time looking at products in them, because I was always there for a specific item, or to talk to the pharmacist about an ailment. One thing in France that is cool, is that you can give the pharmacist your symptoms and they can prescribe you a medicament on the spot.

Which brings us back to the last pharmacie we went to in Paris. We had been to Italy the previous week and arrived in Paris for a two day stay to visit my friend, who I'll call S. Before we met up with her, my hubby reluctantly summoned me for major help. He only had to say one word, bouchon, for me to know that I was going to have to do some embarrassing translating.

Bouchon is a longstanding joke with us, thanks to S. She was visiting us in the States when she pulled out some medicine once and told me she had to take it because she didn't want a bouchon. Bouchon means cork. You figure it out.

As I moaned and groaned about asking the pharmacist for the proper tire-bouchon magic pill, Hubby says, "And don't you dare say it's for me!" Suuuuuure, sweetie-pie. I told him not to worry, I'd take care of it.

So I'm now in the position of being in the most glamorous city in the world, asking for the most unglamorous of items. Pas chic. I walked up to the counter where there was a young, pretty pharmacist ready to help. I told her quietly what I was looking for. She started asking me all these questions that needed detailed answers and, red-faced, I betrayed my husbands honor and blurted out "Oh Madame, I don't have this problem. It's my husband over there (hiding behind the Band-Aids) who has the issue and needs the pills....but he doesn't want you to know. But don't worry, he doesn't speak French!" She looked at me, understanding, and I knew what she was thinking...she thought I was a really crotte-y wife.

So, I guess I got paybacks for that, because a few days later when we were in Toulouse, as my husband and kids rode a carousel in the park, I sort of jogged over towards it to grab the video camera from my Hubby and I tripped on the power cord of the carousel....and in the most nerdy, geeky and un-chic way, fell right onto all fours in front of my family, my friends and the French lady who sneered and rolled her eyes as if I had no right to trip in front of her. She must have had a bouchon.

Hey Rach, Can I have My Job Back?

Everyone who knows me in real life can attest to the fact that I have always wanted Rachael Ray's $40 a Day job, and let me emphasize it was well before her TV personality existed. And I wouldn't use lame-o words either, to make you hate me hoping I would eat some bad escargot on the Paris episode!
In my circle of friends and acquaintances, I am known for being the Unpaid Travel Agent. I have people calling me and asking for help with trips and even though it takes a lot of time, I just love it!
I even tried to make some money at it, and failed. Before I was HTML savvy, a relative made a "travel advice" website for me. But I just couldn't figure out how I would charge people for advice that I thought should be helpful and budget conscious. Then I, embarrassingly, got roped into a "Become a Travel Agent from Home" scheme that I am only divulging to you all because I remain anonymous. (Funny that the company fell through just days after they received my $69. )
I also wrote for Epinions.com when it was just a baby. And that is where I actually did make money! I made exactly $440.06 total from writing travel reviews. I even used my I'm-a-paid-travel-reviewer clout one time on an airline when they refused to change our seat assignment so my then 3-year old daughter wasn't sitting 40 rows behind me next to a stranger.

I made homemade destination packets for friends going to Hawaii, and they actually used them and said it really made their trip! Recently I helped a dear friend's sister (who I only know through e-mail) with her first trip to Paris. I got the nicest thank-you and I really do feel there is more happiness in giving, especially when it involves travel.

I'm no longer wishing to make money with travel advice, that was just an early-Internet-Days dream. I moved on to Ebay and found myself a little niche there back then. But speaking of Epinions, I haven't been back to that site in years to write anything. So, inspired by speaking about it in this post, I opened up my account, and after plugging in 100 different passwords I possibly could have used back in 1999, I finally found the winning number.

I have been reading my stuff and I have a mixture of feelings about it. Now that I am writing again, I find that I wrote about many of the same feelings and experiences that I have here. Some of the phrases are the same, some are how I wanted to portray it 8 years ago but didn't have the articulation that I do now (not that I am articulate, just more-so than back then.) I have the same sense of humor, the same pet-peeves and the same passions, only maybe more balanced nowadays.

And so back to Rachael, I still believe she stole my job idea. And you would have liked me! I would never have tried to force you to say "EVOO" and I still would have taken you to Paris, sure, but I would also take you to lesser-known places that I fell in love with and that is where I'd make you a nice comfy spot to watch and dream and you would quickly fall in love with those places too....

And so, with that in mind, let me leave you with a YouTube video I found of Carcassonne. It is hours from Paris, but the charm of this Cité leaves the City of Lights in the dust...in my Epinion anyway.

Job Descriptions

We live in a country where Customer Service exists and is pretty darn good. Customer Service does not exist in France. Well, not as we know it in the United States, anyway. This can really be infuriating if you need to get something accomplished or just accomplish getting through the day without getting ticked off. Take for example the French policy of returning items to the store for exchange or refund. Oh wait, it doesn’t exist. Each item we purchase, be it a washcloth or a small appliance, is carefully checked out and debated between us, because we know that in France, the customer was always wrong. Even if said appliance spontaneously combusts. This really puts the pressure on, because I hate retail commitment, especially in light of my bad luck; if there is a defective one of something , I’ll be the one to buy it. Even if I reach in the wayyyyyy back of the shelf and grab the untouched one, it’ll be sure to be the malfunctioning one. Even if I, against my better judgment, grab the first one, it’ll be the faulty one. And why can’t I bring it back if I have the receipt, mean French lady at the counter?

Maybe it’s not her job. Because we heard that a lot. My brother was living in Switzerland at the time we were in Toulouse and one day he hopped a train to surprise us. Settling in on the train, he fell asleep. While he was in a deep slumber, the train stopped somewhere along the way, split in two, and went their separate ways. One half going to Toulouse, the other half going to Spain. When the train-half that my brother was on stopped at the final destination, he woke up. But not in France. He was, you guessed it, on the wrong half.

He had to buy another ticket from Port Bou, Spain, to Toulouse.

Being that he didn’t speak French and I did, I decided to stand up for my brother like any big sister should, and become his personal translator and get some compensation! I never would have thought of this on my own, but every person we reported the story to said, “That qualifies for a refund! You must explain the situation to SNCF and they will give you compensation. ”

After standing in line at the train station for almost an hour, we finally got up to the counter. There was another mean looking lady. I smiled and greeted her (with no reciprocation) and I told her at great length what happened and how traumatized my brother had been to have opened his eyes to see he was not in a familiar place…. The lady apathetically stared at us and after a long pause she said, “I’m sorry, but you are in the wrong line. You must go over there, because this is not my job to help you.”

She pointed us to a lady at a desk, so we walked over. We were told to sit down in the waiting area and…wait. We waited for almost 30 minutes while she sat at her desk typing. When we were finally called over, I again translated the story of what happened. She listened as if she was going to care. I included, “Since my brother was never informed when he bought the ticket that the train was going to be severed, and that he should sit on the France end of it, he is entitled to some sort of compensation. After all, can you imagine how traumatized to wake up and find you are in another country? “

She just looked at me and said, “We cannot compensate your brother for his mistake. And besides, this is not my job. You were supposed to be at that lady’s desk over there, she’s the one who deals with this kind of thing. This is not my job, Madame.” And she pointed to a desk about 20 feet away, where the young woman (girl) was just sitting and looking bored. My brother began to raise his voice and I stopped translating. Frustrated that I didn’t continue the translation, his voice got louder and louder. I calmed him down and said, “Let’s just go over to the girl at the other desk.”

So we did. We (again!) explained the unfortunate events of the previous day’s journey and it wasn’t falling on deaf ears, but sympathetic ears that resulted in a profuse apology. Finally, we thought, someone who will take pity on us and give us compensation (now in our minds it wasn’t compensation for the train splitting anymore, but compensation that we had to endure the French work ethic!) But then, she said something that should not have shocked me since it seemed to be the thought of the day. ”But I’m sorry, this isn’t my job. I cannot help you. You have to go through the door behind me into office number 100 and talk to someone in there.”

At that point in time, I informed my brother his translator had quit and he was on his own. Because the only thing I cared about then, was getting away from all French SNCF employees. And besides, translating is not my job!

It didn’t go well in room 100. And there was no compensation. But I, thankfully, was no longer involved.

But just when you think you have it all figured out, “they” change it again on you. A few weeks later, Hubby’s brother and another friend came to visit us. It was their first time in a foreign country and things had not started off smoothly. They decided to fly into CDG Paris and take a train to Toulouse. (And yes, they were warned about the tractor/TGV collision.) They were told by someone at the airport they could not buy train tickets at that train station; they would need to go to one in the center of Paris. So they bought tickets to that particular station, found the ticket counter and successfully purchased them.

And then the same man who sold the tickets to them said, “Oh, by the way, you aren’t leaving from this train station. You must go to Gare du Nord (which was across the city from where they were!) and your train is leaving in 20 minutes, so you won’t have time to make the train!”

They tried anyway and as they made it all the way across town and onto the platform they showed an SNCF employee their ticket and as she looked at it she said, “Oh, see that train that’s just pulling away? That is your train. You missed it.”

Feeling like jumping in front of a moving train, they purchased yet another set of tickets from this lady who informed them they “must buy First Class tickets, but you will be going standby. “ What that meant, they later found out, was they paid for First Class seats but ended up in the luggage portion between the train cars, taking turns sitting on a pull down seat the size of a small pizza box. Why they couldn’t have paid Second Class prices for the no-class “seat” is something we’ll never know. But I'm sure it wasn't her job anyway!

They finally made it to Toulouse, about six hours later than we estimated. We took them home, fed them and let them sleep. We hit it hard touring the next day. When they could take no more, we stopped at Place St. Georges, for refreshing drinks. Bro-in Law said with a heavy sigh, “All I want is a Pepsi with ice!” and Our Friend said, “And all I want is a water with lemon!” Hubby and I looked at each other and burst into fits of laughter . It was one of those moments of relief or a pressure release....having other Americans (and family at that) to share our bottled up, frustrating un-American experiences with. Trying to gain our composure we said, “Um, we’ve been here for three months now and we’ve yet to get a cube of ice in a drink, and forget about something as luxurious as a lemon to go with your water! It’ll never happen!”

We ordered our boissons and told tales of warm Cokes being the norm in France, and how lucky we were to have ice at the flat, and how the French guests we had over begged us not to put ice in their drinks. Clearly disappointed, our guests just moped and withered in the heat and 100 percent humidity.

And then the waiter brought our tray of drinks. There was a Pepsi for Bro-in-Law, garnished with… a lemon! And a bottle of water with an extra glass of ice to the brim for Our Friend. They looked at each other, traded luxuries and burst into laughter. Hubby and I sat in stunned silence and then we all laughed ourselves silly.