An American in Provence

What to say? What to say?

Don't want to say too much, but I recently quit my current position in Aix-en-Provence and will be starting with another firm, doing the same thing, in Marseille in a few months time, once my current notice period is over (3 months in France!).

There are many things I will miss about working in Aix, the 90+ minutes per day of commute not being one of them.

I have been here five years and it is time for a change.

I should have stayed in bed Thursday.

Our car has been making noise for awhile now, and we haven't been able to take to the garage. Well, in our defense, it has been a perma-vacation for the mechanics in the South of France for the past month.

Anyway, we took it in for a Contrôle Technique, which is a review of the car that is obligatory every two years. We actually didn't need to take it yet, but we wanted a rather unbiased opinion of what was wrong from someone who makes no money in forcing expensive repairs on you. We were told nothing major, but perhaps the power steering needed some work. Indeed, whenever I turned the steering wheel sharply, like to park, it made noise.

Anyway, the mechanic near my work finally opened back up two weeks ago, so I had him look over the car. He said he would call me when he had an opening, surely by the end of the week. Stupid me, I waited, and waited, and waited. Finally, this last Wednesday I called to see what was up. He had lost my number and said to bring it in this morning. Okay, great.

Before leaving for work Thursday morning, I got a call. He said he couldn't take it that morning, could I come in tomorrow (Friday)? Okay, fine for tomorrow.
Except, when driving to work on the highway, not okay!
The battery light kept coming on and off, and then for awhile the exhaust pipe started smoking. The electricity seemed to be coming in and out (trouble opening and closing the windows). I went slowly, and when I got near Aix, a knocking sound started.

I called the mechanic again, begging him to fit me in today. He kept asking "tomorrow isn't okay?" NO tomorrow is not okay. I waited for a week for you to call, and now look at the situation I am in.
He said to call back around noon.

The power steering went out, and I could barely park it in the parking garage. As I was backing in to a spot, I heard a bang!
I managed to park, raised the hood, and looked inside.
But who am I kidding? I have no idea what could be wrong, unless some tube starts spurting liquid.
I then noticed a big round metal circle on the floor, right where the car had been before I had backed up. This is not good.

I picked it up and put it in the car, getting extremely dirty in the process. I managed to stain my white fuzzy shrug (and also got mashed banana in the lining of my purse - not a good day).

I went to work and called again around noon. No answer. I decided to try and move the car, as well as to take a picture of the mysterious part and get my parking pass, as I knew we would have to borrow my in-law's car.
I managed to move the car out of the parking garage, at a slow pace, and park it across from the garage; (Nine euros a day, thanks so much).

I called again, leaving a message that the car was now across from the garage, and I would bring it in Friday morning.

No reponse. I called my in-laws, explained the problem, and as luck would have it, they were coming to Aix that afternoon for a doctor's appointment. After work, I walked over to the clinic and met them. They drove me back to their house, and I took their second vehicle, a Fiat Panda (like a car, only smaller).

Otherwise, I would have had to take the train back to Marseille, the subway home, then Alain and I would have to go out to their house on Alain's motorcycle, then I drive back in the car and he on his motorcycle.
I showed Jacques and Josée the picture, and they had no idea what it was. They also described it to Nicolas, my brother-in-law, who is a mechanic for the Army. He had no idea either. I would publish it here but can't seem to get it off my phone.

Anyway, Friday morning, I parked Josée's car in the parking garage, and went to wait for the mechanic at 7:45 a.m. like he said. And waited. And waited.
Nothing.

I left a not so nice message on his machine, paid another 9€ for Friday's parking, and went to work. I called another garage nearby and got an appointment for Wednesday morning. The other garage seems more professional, asking what type of car, what seems to be the problem. Um, parts falling off? Everyone keeps asking if I am sure that the part came from the car, and whether I picked it up and kept it.
1) Fairly certain due to the loud bang and that it was exactly where the car was
2) Do I really look that dumb? No, I decided to just leave it there in the middle of the floor as it obviously is unimportant and inexpensive.

Anyway, Friday night before leaving work, I again paid for Saturday's parking. Hopefully I will only have to pay for one more day, Monday, as Tuesday is a holiday.

Also, here's hoping that I can get it the 500 meters to the other garage, that they are open and haven't just decided to take vacation, and that the repairs aren't more expensive than the car is worth. It is over ten years old, and has 218K kilometers, so I am leaning towards getting a less-old car if it will cost us more than 500€ or so, but Alain disagrees.

While I was gone in Thailand, my office went through an internal rearrangement. Now, instead of being in the biggest room overlooking the square with two other people, I am all by myself in the meeting room, which overlooks the inner courtyard of the building.

Our office is the entire first (that is, second to you Americans), and it does a complete circle around the inner courtyard and staircase.

I often went there to escape the accordionists, but as I didn't have my computer nor desk there, it was mainly just to read in quiet.





I never thought I would say this, but it is almost too quiet. I feel somewhat isolated. Good think I am an Engineer and thus anti-social by nature, but still.


I bought a sound card and speakers for my computer so that I can listen to music quietly while I work.

It took me a bit to get used to being in this new space. I had spent almost 3 years where I was before, (started February 4, 2008). Started humming to myself "Nobody likes me, everybody hates me...."


So if you come in the building and hear someone bouncing off the walls saying "Look at me! Look at me! Look at me!" It is probably yours truly. But all in all, I think the move will be good for me. I also need to gain some independence and confidence.



(And I'm already thinking of it as "Megan's Office" not the "meeting room".)


Oh, and what has happened to its usage as an actual meeting room you wonder? There will be a smaller table put in my boss's office (the biggest room where the three of us once were), and this table is being kept where it is. If there is a company-wide meeting, it will be in MY OFFICE, and if they ever need to use and me to be ELSEWHERE, I'll have to go elsewhere. (Though hopefully not near the accordionists nor in the toilets.)



PS The police of Aix will be quite glad I moved too. I called them every single time the accordionists, or their sister/daughter violinist played, which was pretty much every day.
Everybody wins!


PPS Come to think of it, I think I am the opposite of claustrophobic. I like small, enclosed spaces. I especially hate the feeling that someone can sneak up on me. This should be perfect for me.

Last week I was meandering through Aix during my lunch break and came across a guy obviously trying to pick up women/get donations. As I walked by he drew me in with "Oh you have such beautiful eyes!"
Okay, yeah what do you want? (I saw that he had small packets of candy)
"Oh it's for the children so they can play sports!"
He didn't have any pamphlets, signs, T-shirt with name of organization, nothing.
I figured I would give him 50 cents or so and be done with it, so I opened up my wallet.
He held out a fistful of euros and and asked if I had any bills because he had so much change. Thinking he wanted to exchange for example X euro coins for a X euro bill, I pulled out a five and gave it to him. He plunked the small packet of candy (like halloween packets of jellybeans- there mustn't have been more than 30 jellybeans in the thing) and was off to his next victim. "Oh mademoiselle..."
I said Hey wait a minute, where's my change?
He handed me a euro and moved away quickly. Though if I hadn't asked him, I'm sure I wouldn't have even gotten that much.
I yelled after him "How do I know you even work for the organization you say you work for?"
He couldn't (or wouldn't) hear me, he was busy swindling La Jolie Mademoiselle.
Sigh.
I ate my 4€ jellybeans and chalked it up to lessons learned.
If I ever see him again I will give him a piece of my mind and drive away any Mademoiselles with pretty eyes he is chatting up.

They are back.
The street musicians that make my working life miserable.
Why does their making a living have to make my making a living so unbearable?
Last year they didn't start as early. I don't remember wanting to kill them until around at least May.
This year, they seem to have set up permanent camp outside my office window.
Every day, for about six hours per day, I get treated to either:
a) droning violin music; or
b) droning accordion music.
Sometimes in the summer I get a treat and get something different, like guitar music, which is a bit more bearable.
I guess that is what I get for daring to work in a high-tourist area.
Attention tourists- DO NOT GIVE THE MUSICIANS MONEY. IT JUST ENCOURAGES THEM.
Apparently it is a brother/sister team. Can't they find some other part of Aix to annoy?
If it could just be limited to certain hours per day, such as from 12-2 when people are eating on the terraces. Or like 30 minutes per location, then they have to go bother someone else.
That would be okay.
But no, seriously, every day starting up at about 10, going until about 1, then starting up again around 3 and going for another three hours.
Calling the police doesn't really help. By the time the police get around to stopping girl-watching by the Hôtel de Ville and mosey up here, I am ready to start tossing water balloons.
The musicians get chased away by the police but only move to about 50 meters away (better, but I still hear them), or else they just come back to the same spot in half an hour.
The only way I can somewhat tolerate it is to put earplugs in or listen to music. I suppose I could move my desk to the other side of the building, either by or in the bathrooms, which I have considered.
When I come home at night, I still have the constant droning going on in my brain. It's like the soundtrack of my life, a darn "Amelie" song on permanent repeat.
It's not even like I am humming it (scree! screeeeee!!! scree! scree!), it's like I actually still hear it in my head.
So if some day you hear of someone going nuts and getting arrested for throwing tomatos at street musicians in Aix, it is probably yours truely. And I already know what my punishment will be- that's right. Psycological torture.

I swear, I work in the soundtrack of the Amelie movie. There are two accordion players who like to hang out right around the building where I work in Aix. They like this road in particular because it is a main road that tourists take. When they first started playing a month or so ago, I thought it was quaint and French. Now, after day after day of accordion music, it is just annoying and French. About two weeks ago I cracked and begged my boss to call the police, the "noise control" squad. They came and chased them away. Which was good for about half a day. Now I just have to put in earplugs, go into a different part of the office, or listen to my Ipod. As far as accordion players go, they aren't bad. But I think I have heard the same three songs about 30 times each now. It has become just a constant accordiony whine in my brain. I feel like asking them, "If I give you 10€, how much time of silence does that buy me?" "A day? Okay!"
Today I had a treat, there was a violin player outside.

The Day of Music, June 21st, is coming up. It is a day when everyone, talented or not, is encouraged to make music somehow- singing, blasting their radios, etc. Oh fantastic!

Aix-en-Provence is a somewhat famous town about 30 minutes northeast of Marseille. Alain and I have been to visit several times. The general feelings of the Marseillais towards Aix is that it is a snobby, stuck-up town, that is nice to visit sometimes, but you wouldn't want to live there. The general feelings of the Aixois towards Marseille is that is a dirty, noisy, big city. I guess both are correct.

From the guidebook- "Provence's former capital is an international student's town, with one of the region's most cosmopolitan streets of restaurants and bars, rue de la Verrerie. The University was founded by Louis II of Anjou in 1409 and flourished under his son, Good King René. Another wave of prosperity transformed the city in the 17th century, when ramparts, first raised by the Romans in their town of Aquae Sextiae, were pulled down, and the mansion-lined cours Mirabeau was built. Aix's renowned fountains were added in the 18th century. "

Sights to see in Aix-

the Old Town, with a 17th century City Hall, 16th century clock tower
Roman baths
18th Century spa complex
Cathédrale St-Sauveur (with a 4th century baptistry, 2nd century columns, etc)
Musée des Tapisseries
Musée du Vieil Aix
Muséum d'Histoire Naturelle
Paul Cezanne's Atelier (Is that Cezanne coming out of his atelier? ->)

From one of my favorite authors about life in Provence, Peter Mayle "A Year in Provence"

"The road leads into Aix at the end of the most handsome main street in France. The Cours Mirebeau is beautiful at any time of the year, but at its best between spring and autumn, when the plane trees form a pale green tunnel five hundred yards long. The diffused sunlight, the four fountains along the center of the Cours' length...

Over the years, a nice geographical distinction has eveolved between work and more frivolous activities. On the shade side of the street, appropirately, are the banks and insurance companies and property agents and lawyers. On the sunny side are the cafés.

I have liked almost every café that I have been to in France, even the ratty little ones in tiny villages where the flies are more plentiful than customers, but I have a soft spot for the sprawling cafés of the Cours Mirabeau, and the softest spot of all for the Deux Garçons...

Aix is a university town, and there is clearly something in the curriculum that attracts pretty students... They are taking a degree course in café deportment, with a syllabus divided into four parts.

One: The Arrival

One must always arrive as conspicuously as possible, preferably on the back of crimson Kawasaki 750 motorcycle driven by a young man in head-to-toe black leather and a three-day stubble..

Two: The Entrance

Sunglasses must be kept on until an acquaintance is identified at one of the tables, but one must not appear to be looking for company. Instead, the impression should be that one is heading into the café to make a phone call to one's titled Italian admirer, when - quelle surprise!- one sees a friend. The sunglasses can then be removed and the hair tossed while one is pursuaded to sit down.

Three: Ritual Kissing

Everyone at the table must be kissed at least twice, often three times, and in special cases four times. Those being kissed should remain seated, allowing the new arrival to bend and swoop around the table, tossing her hair, getting in the way of the waiters, and generally making her presence felt.

Four: Table Manners

Once seated, sunglasses should be put back on to permit the discreet study of one's own reflection in the café windows- not for reasons of narcissism, but to check important details of technique: the way one lights a cigarette, or sucks the straw in a Perrier menthe, or nibbles daintity on a sugar lump. If these are satisfactory, the glasses can be adjusted downward so that they rest charmingly on the end of the nose, and attention can be given to the other occupants of the table.

I imagine there must be the occasional break for academic work in between these hectic periods of social study, but I have never seen a textbook darken the café tables, nor heard any discussion of higher calculus or political science..."