An American in Provence

Crever /kʀəve/transitive verb
1) (percer) to puncture, to burst [pneu, ballon];

2) (épuiser) [travail, chaleur] to wear [sb] out;[patron] to work [sb] into the ground;

3) (mourir) [plante, animal] to die;



Guess which of the above meanings of "crever" I had this morning?

(Well, I suppose as I am writing this, it probably isn't the third)


Yep, one deflated tire.

Started driving to work at my normal time of way too early, and about 500 meters down the road I feel the car start to wobble. I pulled over as soon as I could, got out and checked- yep. Front left tire completely flat. Le Sigh.

I parked it (luckily in a flat parking lot, not halfway off the sidewalk) and walked back. I didn't have the cell phone and was dressed up for work, so I didn't change it myself.

If the flat had happened about ten minutes later I would have been on the highway, so let's be thankful for small things.

(Plus, if I had been on the highway I would have been forced to change it myself)


Walked home, about 15 minutes, which is always fun in the half-light of morning dressed up in a skirt and heels, with truck drivers driving past and trying not to trip over the overflowing trash bins.

Let myself back in. Honey! Guess what???

Managed to pry him out of bed. He got dressed, I changed into something more tire-changing/hauling friendly, and we walked back to the car. He put the spare tire on without too much problems. We decided to leave it there for the moment as it was well-parked (wouldn't get a parking ticket or hauled away) and as we didn't know where we would be taking it, decided to wait until we found a garage. Walked back and stopped by a garage that opened early. It happened to be a garage that does only tires. Score!


Alain spoke to one of the guys and said "Ma femme a crevé ce matin." (which could mean "my wife died this morning" or "my wife got a flat this morning.") Obviously he meant the second, but I teased him and said "Oh thanks dear!"


We brought in the tire, and the vrai Marseillais checked it over. Turns out that the rim was cracked, and I guess the sharp part of the rim damaged the tire.

We bought the car from Alain's parents, and they had had the same problem. They had gotten it repaired, but I guess it hadn't been well-repaired. They put some sort of paste in the cracks, but the cracks just spread.



Anyway, the garage doesn't fix rims, but they recommended we go to their buddy who does. We headed over there, and he said he could fix it, between now and Thursday, for 110€ cash. I guess he will melt the broken area and re-solder it. Then we will take it back to the first garage and have both front tires changed, 240€ total. Sigh.


I stayed home from work today, and Alain got to work about 10:30. This evening we will go to his parents and borrow their second car. They just bought this small little car, and are quite protective of it. They weren't thrilled with the idea of me parking it in Marseille (but what if it gets dented!!??) but when Alain pulled out the "Then I guess she'll just have to go to the central bus station in the center of the city at 6:30 am to get the bus to Aix" argument, they caved.


So now, je suis crevée, j'ai un pneu crevé, mais je n'ai pas encore crevé.

(I'm worn out, I have a flat tire, but I'm not yet dead.)

I seem to be making a habit lately of getting locked out of my apartment in various cities of France.
Last time, our apartment, Marseille, totally not my fault.
This time, my studio, Strasbourg, totally my fault.

The door has three locks, and the middle one you have to have the key to open it, even if it is not locked. (I hate these kind of doors- just begging to get locked out when you say, go get the mail.)

At night, I put the key in the middle lock, lock the door, and leave the key in the lock. This morning, I got ready to go (thinking about my practice test which went okay, thanks), unlocked the locks, went to put on my coat and get my bag, opened the door, walked out, closed the door, OH NO! Yep, had left the key in the lock on the inside.

There was nothing I could do about it at the time, so I went to my class, and quickly sent an email to the owner, telling her I was locked out and could she please stop by and either meet me at the apartment or just leave the keys under the mat or something?
I noted her cellphone number, in case I needed to call her.
By noon, she still had not emailed me, so I borrowed one of my friend's cellphones to call. Yes, I don't have a cellphone. Yes, I know it is highly unusual. I just don't like the things. I don't WANT to be joinable every second of every day. The few times you really need one, you can usually find a payphone nearby or else use someone else's. The human race somehow managed to survive 10,000+ years without them. Anyway.

I called and left a message, leaving my friend's cellphone number. I called back after class and the owner said she could stop by after her work, about 7 pm. Sure great, thank you so much.

Had a conference at 5:30 with a speech that was supposed to last about 45 minutes, followed by another 30 minutes or so alloted for questions. Come 6:50, the questions still weren't finished, so I tried to slip out as unobtrusively as I could. Raced home, found my landlady trying to open the door. No success. As I had left the key in the lock on the other side, we couldn't open it with the spare set of keys from the outside.

We tried to think of ways to get in. Credit card? No luck. Thought about going through the window, but no ladder and don't think that would have been much easier either. My neighbor came home (young college kid) so we asked him if he had anything like a screwdriver or nail file. He said no, but got some plastic cards and a paperclip, and had a go. Couldn't push the key out, couldn't get the latch to slide open. Another neighbor came home (young, college student) and we asked her the same thing. She tried to find something to help, and the two of them worked on it for about twenty minutes.

By this time, my legs were aching (stress and tiredness) and all I wanted was to take a hot bath and crawl in bed. Also had to pack my suitcase, and if possible, study for my second practice test tomorrow morning (5 hours long). I would have given up a long time ago and called a locksmith, but it is hard to suggest such a thing when half the building is trying to fix YOUR mistake, yet you feel bad for them getting bruised knuckles and surely they have SOMETHING better to do on a Friday night?

After about an hour, my neighbor finally managed to get it open! yay! Very glad because didn't have to wait another hour for a locksmith to arrive, and I didn't have to pay the locksmith (which would have been at least 100€). My landlady said she would bring him some eclairs on Sunday afternoon. I would have invited them in, but don't think being invited into my messy studio and being offered Pineapple juice really interested them, as they were both in their early 20's (ah! I'm no longer in my 20's!! ahh!!) and it being a Friday night and all.

Thank goodness. Now only have to remember not to do the same thing when I leave tomorrow....

When : Saturday night, 23:45
Where : Marseille, on the landing outside our apartment
Who : An American in Provence and one Nutty Frenchman
Situation : Locked out of their apartment, and really needing to use the bathroom
Why : Key stuck in very old lock
Agravating circumstances : leaving on the train in six hours for Strasbourg

Yep, Alain and I were locked out of our own apartment Saturday night. We had been out to dinner with some of the other people from Alain's karate club, up in Pelissane, and left after dinner was over at around 10:30 to return to Marseille. Figured I would wait until we got home to use the toilet, wasn't that urgent right?
Well, an hour later it was getting urgent.
Park (in a totally illegal spot, the only kind available after about 19h in marseille) sprinted back to our apartment, where Alain put the key in one of the five locks (yes, we have five but only use three) and...
Nothing.
The key had twisted, making it impossible to pull it out or turn it.
What to do?
Panicing, we head over to the McDonald's on the corner (this McDonalds has served us well in our times of bathroom need, like when we didn't have a toilet for a weekend due to replacing it with a new one).
Bought a soda, used the facilities and debated what to do next. We could head to his parents' house for the night, waking them up in the middle of the night, but my train was leaving at 7:40 the next morning, with all my stuff inside the apartment (and not quite finished packing either I might add).
We decided to call information. Anti-cellphone people that we are, we had to find a payphone (not easy nowadays, there are fewer and fewer payphones around). There happened to be one right across from the McDonalds, so we called information and were put through to a 24 hour locksmith. We gave him our name and address and he said he would be there in about 30 minutes, and it would be at least 200€. I was just hoping that the door wouldn't have to be broken down- sure to wake all the neighbors (and our neighbor would probably call the police on us) plus, as nothing is standard size, we would have to have another specially made. We headed back to the apartment to wait. I waited down by the building entrance while he went back up to try again to get in.
About five minutes later, he comes running down, tells me that he managed to open the door, and is about to sprint out to the payphone when I call after him "Why don't we just use the phone in our apartment then?" He turns around and runs back up. We get in (after all these years of moaning about this apartment, it sures feels different after you are locked out of your own home) and he dials the number given by information. Hello, we just called about the lock... Aren't you a locksmith? Oh. Sorry for waking you.
Call information again, get the (correct) number for the locksmith, call him again, tell him that we managed to get in and don't need his services anymore.... He was rather annoyed, which I suppose is understandable, and hung up.
Went to sleep a little before 1, for five whole hours of sleep.
Got to the train station at 7 am for my train that leaves at 7:40. Alain was teasing me about being so early, but I told him "you never know with the SNCF". Indeed, a few minutes later, my train completely disappeared from the sign. One minute it was there, showing as "on time", next minute, nothing, like it never existed.
We quickly asked one of the agents what happened, and she said "Oh, it has been canceled due to a strike." what else is new?!
We quick ran over to a train leaving at 7:10 going by Lyon as well (which is the one that I usually take) and I managed to hop on board, without having the correct ticket and without validating (composté) my ticket.
Managed to sit behind two families with young children who had portable DVD players with "the Lion King" showing to keep their kids entertained, without headphones of course. Really, the last thing I want to hear at 7:30 am on a sunday morning after five hours of sleep is
Nants ingonyama bagithi Baba Sithi uhm ingonyama Nants ingonyama bagithi babaSithi uhhmm ingonyamaIngonyamaSiyo Nqoba IngonyamaIngonyama nengw' enamabala!!!!!

Ahhh!!!

Honestly. Some people have no respect for others. Please readers, if you have children, I understand that you want/desperately need to keep them entertained. But do you really want your fellow passengers contemplating throwing you/your kid/the portable DVD player out the window of the TGV?
Thank you.

Learned another new verb the other day.
The hard way.
"se vautre" is a reflexive verb meaning "to sprawl on" like "to sprawl on the couch."
However, in slang terms, it also can be used to mean something along the lines of "to take a digger" "to fall flat on your face" or "to splat".
I am usually able to handle a) walking b) on a flat surface c) indoors.
But other times it is all just too much for me.
I was walking across my office at work when all of a sudden, it was like I was on ice.
Wow. I think I might have made a dent in the tile.
Nothing bruised or broken, but boy I felt stupid.

One of those times you wish there was a small animal or annoying child to break your fall.
Didn't help that two of my colleagues were right there.
Actually, my officemate had slipped (but not face-planted) earlier in the day in the exact same spot.

I think my audience didn't know whether to laugh or to go rent a forklift to pry me off the ground.
Conclusion: se vautre. Dangerous verb.

Exhausted.
This has been a very slow week. On Sunday I started to come down with a cold- always starts with a sore throat for me. By Monday, it was a full-blown cold. In my office of three, two of us were sick. One guy, stuck right in the middle of us, was not yet sick. He still is not sick after a week of sharing an office and shaking hands with us. A miracle.

On Tuesday we had "K par K" come so that we could sign the contract to get the window in our bedroom and window/door to the balcony on the street side replaced. We get quite a lot of street noise, and last Saturday we got an estimate for the top of the top double paned, super anti-noise windows- 4000€. Yikes. At least it includes transportation and installation. It is supposed to be 42 dB and is supposedly what is used in airport zones. Our current windows were installed in 1993, and are 27 dB. They help a lot, but not enough. I hope these new ones do the job. We had an estimate from another company for 35 dB I think it was, for 2500€ including installation. We figured that we might as well pay for the best. Then we at least know that we did all that we could.

Anyway, back to Tuesday. The technician was supposed to come at 7:30. When I got home from work I noticed that there was water all over the kitchen floor. Our water heater leaks, and we put a bucket underneath to catch the drops. Well, the bucket overflowed. I was moving the small table with the microwave and other electrical appliances out of the way, when all of the sudden the electricity went out. I checked in the corridor, and there were lights, so it was just our apartment. I got a flashlight and looked behind the small table- yep, the power strip had fallen into the bucket of water. Duh electrical engineer.

Yes, I know, it is super dangerous. I don't need a lecture.

I was standing there in the dark rather stupidly when the technician shows up, about 30 minutes early, and Alain still hadn't come home. Hello Mr. Stranger. Please come into my apartment when I am home alone in the dark. He was nice and helpful, and we managed to move everything out of the way. I got the ladder and we fiddled with the electrical box. Nothing. Alain came home and managed to fix the situation while the K par K guy sat out in the hallway and started filling out the paperwork. This must have been one of his more interesting visits.

Anyway, we got the lights on, he came in, we signed the contract. One thing that irks me is that people tend to ignore the foreign half of the couple, especially if that foreign half is a woman. It went from being Mr. and Mrs. P's project to just Mr. P everything. His name on the papers. His signature. His contact information. What am I, chopped foreigner? Anyway, soon another technician will come to take the exact measurements, then the windows will be made, which will take up to eight weeks, then they will be installed, which should only take a day. Perhaps finally I can stop sleeping with earplugs. I thought about asking how much the double-paned glass would be for the entire wall but didn't. Oh, one unexpected bonus is that the government will reimburse 1300€ of the 4000€ price. Not because of the noise but for thermal insulation.

And now, finally, it is the weekend.

(so take off all your clothes, I am getting so hot, I want to take YOUR clothes off)
-Nelly "Hot in Here"

At my gym, there is a sauna and a hammam. Had no idea what the difference was before I started going there, and at first I thought one had to pay in order to use the sauna and hammam. But no, it is included in the monthly fee. There is a clear rule "You must wear your swimming suit in the sauna/hammam". Ahh. But they should be even more clear about what is and what is not allowed as we will see.
The first time I wanted to use it, I took a quick peek into the room that has both cabins. There was a couple in the sauna (dry heat). They weren't doing anything outright wrong, but enough uncomfortable that a third person enclosed in the space would want to soon leave. I went and changed into my bathing suit, then went back in. They were no longer in the sauna. I figured they had moved into the hammam (more steamy) or had left so I went into the sauna. Spent my 15 minutes or so in the sauna and then got out and heard funny noises. Are they doing what I think they are doing? I didn't see them in the steam, thought maybe I was hearing things, looked around the corner, and yep. Two people in the shower. Had their bathing suits on at least. Didn't look much closer than that, that was enough. Uhh, yeah, I really want to use that shower after you now.
Haven't seen them back in the sauna room, which is good. I go about once every two weeks now. Usually I am the only one in the room. Today there was another woman in the sauna with me. One those situations that throws me into an etiquette tizzy. Do I make small talk? Shut up and close my eyes? Avoid looking at the other person? Enter into some deep philosophical discussion? How strange is this, being stuck in a small hot sweaty box in my bathing suit with someone I don't know? In fact, would I prefer to know the person or not? Hmm. Need a sign on the door telling me what to do. Do not talk. Avoid looking at other people's body parts. Do not get busy in public places.

This morning I had an appointment at the US Consulate to renew my passport. It actually expires next March, but with the name change and the fact that I need proof of name change on my passport to change it other places (taxes, Social Security, etc) I decided I might as well do it. There are lots of automatic photo machines here in France, so I went in one at the train station in Aubagne while waiting for my train (thanks SNCF! still lovin' ya!) Some stupid teenagers (side note: why are teenagers universally awful?) must have removed all of the signs showing how to operate the machine. There were four buttons blinking happily at me, and I had no idea which button was for which set-up- portrait (yeah, because these machines take such great portraits), 4 ID photos, or 16 small photos to attach to resumes (can you imagine how quickly a US company would be sued for requiring candidates to attach a photo? It would be breathtaking). So anyway, I had no idea which format I chose, so just pushed a button at random. I was hunched down, looking at the screen rather puzzled when it took this picture. Fabulous. The machine kept blinking at me, so I didn't know what was cancel or OK. So I pushed, and out spit the picture, sixteen tiny pictures of me looking puzzled that no way I would ever attach to my resume.

Nearby there is a small jewelry store, that mostly does repairs. I had taken some watches there to have the batteries replaced and had my wedding band/engagement ring soldered together before. Last week I took three rings to have them resized (smaller). One amber ring that Alain gave me, one blue topaz, and one yellow topaz ring (my birthstone). He said to come back Friday (last) and they would be done. I was unable to go Friday and didn't want to spend time Saturday going there, so went yesterday. They were not done yet, so he said to come back today. I went back this afternoon and the rings were done. I tried them on, and they had all been resized larger! Now I know this wasn't a communication problem, because my finger had been measured and my other ring had been measured for comparison. Argh. So he will redo them. For some reason he was thinking 54 instead of 48, and didn't write it down on the slip. On the other hand, they were very pretty and sparkly as he cleaned them for the first time since ever.
My yellow topaz stone is an oval, and had been set so that the long part goes along the direction of the finger. He had changed it so that it is now perpendicular to the finger. It looks better that way so I didn't say anything but why would a jeweler just decide to change the setting of a ring like that? I don't get it at all. Good grief. I guess I need to tell people when I take something in for work, please don't take any initiative without contacting me first (please see "The Blanket Affair"http://megankay4.blogspot.com/2006/09/blanket-affair.html). Will include pictures when I get them back. If I ever get them back.

So, against my better judgement, I have gotten back into running. Quite reluctantly I must say.
But I am trying to go three times a week, at least 20 minutes. Alain goes with me if I go on the weekend.
There are three options: take the public transportation down to the seaside or a big park or something, run, take the public transportation back. Costly and time consuming.
Option 2: go to the nearby park that is supposedly "open". This requires scaling over the fence to access the soccer field, basketball courts, or track. It is never open. We have gone at 9 when it is supposed to open at 8:30 and nothing. So we scale over the fence. Fortunately we found an area where we don't risk being impaled on a spike.
Option 3: run on the streets around here. If you do this, you must complete your run by 8 a.m. It gets bright enough to run around 7, so you have an hour before the streets are invaded by anklebitters. And no, I don't mean dogs.
Between 8 and 8:30: Seriously irritate mothers who are afraid that you are about to steamroll their spawn. Well then don't take up the entire sidewalk! Leave half for people passing or going in the opposite direction. This also requires frequent death-defying zigzags into the street to avoid the old lady with her basket going to market or fashionable yet annoyed women walking their dog before work. Other things to watch for: cars parking on sidewalk (hereby reducing sidewalk pedestrian space to zilch), dog droppings, random trash, uneven sidewalks and steps sticking too far out, and grocer stands. It is really quite a challenge.
When the sun comes up even later, I think I will have to wait until all children are safely tucked into their schools to venture out.
Plus, running doesn't seem so common here. People look at you with a look like "What the heck is she DOING? Why waste energy like that and get SWEATY?"
To work off all your damn cheese!

(before picture)

My wonderful mom spent many hours making a special quilt for my wedding. It was with Provençal fabrics that we bought when they were here for Christmas. She had our monogram embroidered onto a large center square. (I removed our last name in the photo, just for safety) Originally we were going to display it at the wedding reception and have guests write on it, either on the squares on the front side or on the back.
Examples:
http://www.weddingshowergifts.com/photo_quilts/index.shtml#faq

Finally we decided not to, afraid that the ink would bleed through to the other side, etc.

We displayed it at the wedding along with the two pillow cases she had made for us. I finished up the quilting by tying a piece of yarn through each corner. For the final step, cutting off the extra material and sewing on the border, I decided to take it to a tailor as I have no sewing machine.

So I took it to a tailor that works a few blocks away. I should have known better, this is the guy who suggested that we use velcro to bustle my wedding gown. Anyway, I brought it down with the fabric for the edge on Tuesday and explained what I wanted. I was quite clear- I want this cut off and this strip of fabric sewed onto the edge, all the way around. The one thing that I never thought to mention is the one thing that he did.

I returned today and picked it up, 15 euros. I was tired and in a hurry so I didn't take it out of the bag to look it at closely, it looked okay so I returned home. After eating lunch and relaxing a bit, I decided to take it out and admire it. I was examining the edge and noticed something was terribly wrong.
He had sewed the blanket halves together, turning a large square blanket for a bed into a rectangle for a couch blanket! Ahh! Even worse, he had sewed the purple border fabric DIRECTLY ACROSS the middle of the monogrammed square. What was he thinking!? Why on earth would he think that I would want half of our names covered up with this purple strip? Here is my illustration of what it looked like, after. (I was too distraught to take a picture at the time, but seriously it was laughable.) (Imagine puple photoshopped border actually matches)

(after picture)

Oh my god my mom is going to kill me after she spent all this time and money on the fabrics and some two bit tailor who smokes in his shop ruins the quilt.

I quickly headed back to his shop with the quilt rehearsing French phrases in my head. What were you thinking? Who would actually want it to look like this? Where is the back fabric? I am not paying for this! You completely ruined my wedding quilt!

I got there and almost calmly explained that it was not what I wanted. He said don't worry, stop trembling, I didn't cut off the extra material, or throw it away, it is still there, just all sewed together. Fantabulous. So he ripped off the border and showed me. Whew. He said that he did it that way because there was a pin stuck through the middle and he thought that as strange as it seemed, that was how I wanted it. Now, it seems odd to me that a stray pin would make a professional tailor do something like this, but oh well. So he will redo it, and I can pick up Tuesday. Not sure if this going to cost me more. He didn't say anything and I hope not. I guess I forgot to cover the "Don't fold the quilt in half and sew it all together" part in the instructions. Note for next time: cover everything you can think of and give them your phone number with the instructions of "If a fit of madness overcomes you and you decide to just wing it, please call me first."

I got my hair cut on Thursday. This was the third or fourth time that I have gotten it cut here in France. I had cut out a page from a magazine with a style that I liked, as I find that is more helpful in explaining what I want.
I decided to try a new place this time, as the last place was really expensive (27 euros). There is at least one beauty salon on each block. And by block I mean one side of the street between two side streets. I don't see how they all keep in business. I guess either a) French women go a lot more often to the beauty parlor, or b) the salons charge a lot more to make up for it. I am guessing a mixture of the two.
I saw the list of prices on the sign outside. transformation- 12.50. Okay, good I just want that. I don't need my hair shampooed and styled for another 20 euros, I just need it cut.
I go in and say I want my hair cut. They then proceed to lead me over and wash my hair. I guess I need to be more forceful about these things. No, just CUT!!!!
While I am covered in suds, the teenager washing my hair and smacking her gum asks if I want the cream. I don't know, do I want the cream? Do you want me to want the cream? (Of course she wants me to want the cream- it is five euros a glob as I find out later when paying my bill. Thanks for that!) I figure it is some sort of conditioner and say yes. I guess it was some sort of color enhancer.
I get toweled off and lead over to the chair. And search frantically in my purse for my magazine clipping, which is not there. Panic and consider bolting wet-headed out the door. Um, quelques centimeters? She starts to cut and I start to worry. Whoa that is short!
She finishes cutting and starts to style it (another ten euros).
It is of course, very important to pay attention during this part so that you can try and try and try and drive yourself crazy trying to recreate the same look every morning at home for the next two months until you get it cut again. It is no use- you can buy the same brushes, creams, and hairdryers, and you will never acheive it.
The secret? I am about to reveal to you why.
Are you ready?
The reason is, gentle readers, is that you, unlike hair stylists, do not have a third arm.
Yes, it is true. It is hidden back there behind the chair so that you cannot see it in the mirror, but it is there. That is how they manage the curling iron, hair dryer and flat brush at the same time. So, you might as well just give up. Or get your hair professionally styled every day. Or grow a third arm. It is up to you.
The lady did flatter me by saying that I have a very nice hair color and that it is a color that all the Frenchwomen envy.
So I paid, 30 euros. Way to save money by switching salons Megan. The hair color compliment only marginally lessened the blow.
My hair looked Super Cute Thursday afternoon until I took a shower to wash off all the hair pieces, and that was the end of it.
So sad.

Today I am going over to visit Alain's parents, Jacques and Josée for lunch. Alain is gone for a week for work. I proudly announced that I would bring a dessert. Jacques said "Oh no, don't worry, you don't have to..." which now that I think about it, could have been French for "Oh god please no spare us!!!!!!"
As the cooking urge doesn't strike me very often, when it does hit, I figure I just have to run with it because there is no tellng when it may come back again.

So I found a recipe off the internet for "The Best All-American Apple Pie Recipe". Okay, that will work. American apple pies are different than French ones because 1) they are covered with a top crust and 2) lots and lots of cinnamon, which the French seem to generally regard with suspicion and mistrust.
I went to the nearest Intermarché to find the ingredients for my apple pie. And promptly spent about half an hour gazing stupidly at the sugar/flour section. What the heck is Cornstarch in French? In fact, now that I think about it, what the heck is cornstarch? I could have asked someone for help, but wasn't sure exactly what to say. "You know, 'cornstarch'? 'Cornstarch'? Oh heck, I don't know how you call in French, it's uh, white, I think, and powdery... No, not flour!" After giving up baking powder and cornstarch as lost causes, I wandered over to the spice section in seach of nutmeg.
Oh drat, what is nutmeg? I was hoping it would be the same name. Don't know why I thought that. Conversation with myself..

Me: Self, what does nutmeg look like?
Self: I don't know, a sort-of brownish powdery thing right?
Me: Yeah, I guess you are right. It has been a really long time since we made an apple pie. What does nutmeg look like in it's natural state?
Self: Beats me. I figured it grew in those little spice bottles.
Me: Well, here is brownish nut thing. That could be it. What does a Meg look like?
Self: Don't know, but we especially should know this don't you think?!
Me: Well, considering we wouldn't know it by taste or smell, I think we should just give up.

Turns out, when I checked it out online later, the bottle I thought it was, mouscade, was right. Oh well.

So considering I had no idea whether the flour was pastry flour or bleached all-purpose flour, there was no way I was finding baking powder, cream cheese, or cider vinegar, I gave up the idea of making my own crust and decided to buy a ready-made. There are two kinds- feuillette (flaky) and brisée. No idea what brisée is, but knew I didn't want the flaky one, so I bought two of the brisée and hoped for the best. I was just hoping it wasn't some sort of pizza crust or the like.

Considered the rest of my recipe for the filling-
Raisins? Who the heck puts raisins in an apple pie? That is just plain un-American. Out with the raisins.
Lemon juice? No way.
Cornstarch? Nope, don't have that either.
Nutmeg? Nope.
Brown sugar? Well, the sugar has a hint of brown color, that will have to do.

Came home determined to find a different American Apple Pie recipe, one without the above ingredients.
Finally found one that sounded about my level, Easy Apple Pie. Yeah, here we go.

Get all prepared to start measuring things out and realize-
Hey wait a minute. This is an American recipe. Which means that all the measurements are in the wacked-out English system of which, I have no measuring cups or spoons. Darn. Hmm, well I can convert the measurements into metric.
Here all the recipes are given in weight and soup spoon/coffee spoon, which I hope are the rough equivalents of table and tea spoons.
So I convert the cups into mL but have only Alain's protein shaker thing that has the mL marked on the side.
" 'Between 1/3 and 2/3 of a cup of sugar'?! Oh thanks for being really precise there!!!"

So I set off, peeling and cutting my apples- one recipe said 6, other said 8, I bought seven, cut up five and needed about 3. Whenever peeling, cutting, and general cooking skills were being passed out, I must have missed them because by the fifth apple my hand was killing me and I was ready to chuck them all out the window.

So I finally get the sugary cinnamony nutmeg-less apple mixture into the two pie crusts in the teeny tiny pan, shove it into our toaster oven and wait. After about two minutes the crust is brown, by ten it is starting to burn. Drat. I think it is supposed to cook only from the bottom right? Well, not an option with our toaster oven. I just hope the bottom crust is cooked and not a gooey mess still.

When I told Alain I was fixing an apple pie for his parents, he said
"Please try not to poison them. We might still need them..."
We shall see. Maybe I will buy some vanilla ice cream, cover the re-heated apple pie in that, and hope for the best.

Le Bise is the traditional and very common french practice of kissing on each cheek a certain number of times when greeting someone and often when saying goodbye.
When I first arrived in France, this really stressed me out. "Oh no. Here is comes. What do I do? Which direction? How many kisses? Did I knock my cheek against theirs too hard? Where the heck do I put my hands? On their arm?"
Normally it goes like this air kiss (really just touching cheeks and making a Mwah! sound) on right cheek, then swivel to the other side. Can be done while talking at the same time. Usually it is two kisses, at least here in the South. In other areas it can be three or four, but never more than that. One seems to only be acceptable when one of the cheeks is somehow not in service.
I personally think anything more than two is excessive. Mwa, swivel, mwa, swivel, mwa, swivel, mwa, swivel. There could be a world record set in this. 1000!!! bises before they got dizzy from turning their heads, their mouths got dry, and they bumped noses too often!
The best thing to do, especially if you are a man, is to let the french person initiate it. As a woman, be prepared for the do I? don't I? I used to quiz Alain before going places about this. He told me that once he was so ashamed because he shook hands with a woman!! Instead of kissing her on the cheek. As in, he was afraid that it came across that he first perceived her as being a man and shook her hand.

French men usually only do it to each other if they are close friends or family, otherwise they shake hands. But it is quite an amusing part of my day to see two teenage wanna be rapper guys kiss each other politely on the cheek.
Women do it with female friends and family, and male friends and family, and shake hands in professional situations. Except when they don't. Example- Alain introduces me to an older lady at his work. I shake hands. He tells me later that it seemed she was a little disappointed that I didn't do Le Bise. Mental note Megan- do the darn bise with everyone you are introduced to. A few days later we are over at his friend's house and the woman introduces me to her aunt and grandmother. Remembering the incident from a few days ago, I do Le Bise with each woman. I am later informed that this is very strange, that I should not have done that. The best thing I have learned, is to say something like Hello. This way, they can tell that you are a foreigner and will be more forgiving of any awful social gaffes you make.
It seems that only children and overly eager teenage boys actually lip plant on the cheek.
I miss hugging. It seems that Le Bise does not have the varied emotional levels of hugging. The We Are Too Manly to Hug So We Will Do A Quick Double Thump on the Back Hug. The Long Hug With Rocking Back and Forth. The Short Awkward Hug, etc.

There is no kiss, pause hold with cheeks pressing together, switch to other side and hold Bise. Haven't seen you since last night? Kiss, kiss. Going away to a foreign country for six months? Kiss, kiss. Just came back from said country? Kiss, kiss.

Of course, the entire process must be repeated when leaving. At a party, this can take awhile. Sometimes it is quite Assembly Line like, moving rapidly down the line of people. Other times it can be quite a chore to remember who all you have already kissed. And then, bien sûr, by the time you get done kissing everyone goodbye, it has been quite awhile since you kissed the first person goodbye, so maybe you should get them again just in case. And if you do Le Bise, then don't leave right away and talk some more, when you get ready to leave for real, you do it again.
There have been some Bise-Related Injuries. Bumped noses, brushed lips (oh so embarassing!), the Too Fast Approach and Overly Rough Landing (cheek bruising).
I guess on the whole it is something that one eventually gets used to and doesn't even think about. Not at that phase yet.

Alain and I have managed to get lost in several metro stations of the world. Paris, (where we went in the completely opposite direction, got off, took the train back, then spent about 10 minutes looking for the train in the train for the correct direction) New York, (where we bought a ticket and then couldn't manage to even get through the turnstiles) and Washington D.C. Gotta love those times when you think "Okay, one of us has a PhD, the other their Master's, we should be able to figure this out between the two of us." We haven't tried London yet, I am sure it will be an adventure.
The Marseille Metro system is amazingly simple and straightforwarded, even for those who are Metroly Challenged.
As Peter Mayle states in his book Encore Provence:

My record with underground transit systems is one of almost unbroken failure. I can, and do, get lost in the bowels of London, New York, or Paris as quickly as most people buy a ticket. But the Marseille system, even to someone who has a useless void where his sense of direction ought to be, is delightfully compact and straightforward. Fifteen minutes after leaving the station, we were on the south side of the Vieux Port, walking along the Corniche in the general direction of lunch.

Yes, the Marseille system is quite convenient. There are two lines, one blue, one red, that intersect at two stations and have about 13 stops each. There is only one caveat: the workers need to not be on strike.

Back in October, on National Strike Day, all public services were on strike, as well as some workers from other companies. They were marching in the streets, holding signs and making noise. Okay great. Back to work the next day. Except for the Metro and Bus drivers. They decide to strike. And the strike went on. And on. They were apparently striking over pay, hours, and the fact that the trolley is being built with city money, then the city plans to sell it to a private company to run. Or something like that. One thing that I want my strikes to be is predictable. This one was not. You would go somewhere (such as school or doctor's appointments) thinking that the lines would still be running when you wanted to, oh say, return home. Yeah, have a nice walk. Or you would check the current status online right before leaving the house for the two minute walk to the station to find out when you got there that they are closed.

Luckily, we live about 30 minutes at a fast pace of walking away from my school. But many students live a lot farther out than that and missed a lot of classes. One of the Universities is on the very edge of town, and there was a lot of hitchhiking. As October dragged into November and the strike crept close to December, the merchants downtown were getting mad- less people coming to shop. The strike finally abated with threats that it would start again sometime. Thankfully, it hasn't yet. Though there was the time that I got on the train to go home, it got halfway there, then said everyone off, we have a technical problem. So as the metro line doesn't go straight as the crow flies from home to school, it was a long hike home.

The city is putting in a trolley line, which is quite amusing considering they tore up the old lines a long time ago, feeling that they were a thing of the past. Cars are the way of the future! Wait a minute, there are way too many cars now! Let's put some trolley lines back in, creating a general citywide disturbance for an indefinite amount of time, and make the traffic even worse with less room for cars! Great idea.

I would ride a bike but they terrify me. Plus, I can't figure out how the gear things work and don't want to die, run over by a bus or crazy Marseillais driver.

So basically, walk or take the Metro. Walking is calming right? It should be a nice leisurely stroll, enjoying the fresh air. Well, not when you have to watch every step you take for fear of dog bombs while squeezing between the parked cars and buildings on the sidewalks built for one.

If I had a car, I could drive to school. But the only place to find parking would be back at home. Thankfully the metro and bus system is fairly extensive and cheap. I was able to buy a one year pass for 260 euros I think it was. Yay for pulic transportation!