How I know I'm not French.

It has been an interesting couple of days.

For starters, I got a taste of that well-known governmental bureaucracy thanks to an on-going saga to obtain my French driver's license. Unfortunately, my Dutch one was either lost or stolen (it's somewhat unclear), but since it occurred here--after already having officially moved from the Netherlands--I was no longer eligible for a Dutch replacement license.

Upon my first visit to the Prefecture du Gard, I was surprised to find a room absolutely crammed full of waiting people, a long line of windows, and only one actually open for service. I decided there must have been some strike going on or something to explain only one person working. This is after all the administrative body for the entire Gard region, in the land of the fonctionnaire, or civil servant. (The fonctionnaire phenomenon is a whole other story...) Upon my third visit, there was still only one person working, and 58 people waiting ahead of me. I don't get it. When it was finally my turn, I discovered this was one bitter fonctionnaire, who seemed to view rudeness as an effective coping mechanism. I have to go back again, by the way. Hopefully the one person on duty will not also be sucking on a Mediterranean lemon.

In the meantime I got a note from school: the party this weekend begins at "about" 16h12, the parade at 17h19, and dinner at 19h01. Si, si.

I don't get it. The specificity I mean, not the party. Especially in the Mediterranean mañana land that is the Gard...

One of the nearby communes (not in a cult sense of the word) recommended in their newsletter that people use a flamethrower to kill the chenilles processionaires while still in their nest/cocoon. These are awful caterpillars which form creeping, snake-like "processions" in the spring, which are meters and meters long. No idea what the creatures are called in English. I do know they cause severe allergic reactions especially in children and can kill dogs outright (rapid suffocation by swelling of the tongue). Hence the flamethrower.

The next issue of the newsletter recommended, however, that people please remove the part of the tree containing the nest first before incinerating...Unfortunately, I can't laugh too hard as I have discovered several nests in my own pine trees (they prefer to colonize pine). One nest is so unbelievably high...so now I am looking for someone with a gun, because, yes, blowing the nest away is also possible, although not as fully effective as, say, a bonfire. If you hunt in the Cevennes, why don't you drop me a message in the comment section. If you have a flamethrower, that'll work too.

After waxing lyrical to a French acquaintance about making this home the "roots" for my multi-culti children, I headed to "my" little village supermarket. I ran into the one Dutch person I know in the entire region. Pleased to see one another, we were exchanging news when another older customer turned to us and very tartly snapped at us (more of that lemon going around, it seems). Apparently, the least we could do was speak in French, being in France and all. My friend gaped at me. I did likewise, but suddenly didn't feel like talking anymore. Until that is, when the same customer turned to another and started complaining about foreigners like us. The other customer was in heartfelt, loud-voiced agreement. Suddenly I felt like talking again. I approached them, as did my friend, and we both started speaking in rapid-fire French. We were then told that it was basic politeness to not speak a language that others couldn't understand...that in fact what we did was unacceptable. Logically we inquired whether they would keep speaking English in England or German in Germany when they run into a fellow French person. Well, of course we got nowhere (logic having nothing to do with this). It was suggested that we go back to Holland.

Neither of us had never previously experienced anything remotely like this and were somewhat shaken. Besides the highly confrontational language used, it felt all the worse for occurring on "home ground." Of course, the feelings they expressed are felt most likely by more than a few, and I can appreciate that. Really, it cannot always be easy being an older person confronted with the internationalization of your space, or at least the EU-ization of your part of the world. Respect, or even sullen acceptance, were not options they were willing to consider, however.

I have spent my life as a bit of an outsider, having been born in Asia, raised in Africa and lived in the US (where I sometimes felt far more of an outsider because I was "supposed" to fit in), and now Europe. Establishing roots has become more important to me over time.

This could have happened anywhere, but it still felt like a sucker punch.
April 3 Update: unexpected development...I returned to the little supermarket, where they were quick to assure me that someone else who was present spoke to the market owner. She then confronted the one lady for behaving that way in a public space, saying she would not accept that in her market. The lady has since refused to return. The other lady's identity is unknown, so she's still on the lam...

For the love of old-fashioned wheels.

We dropped in on the classic car show and exchange in Nimes over the weekend, and the littlest one certainly got his automobile fix. Beyond cars, there was a whole range of wheels to check out: olde tyme bicycles, motorcycles, tractors, even wartime-modified Willys and Jeeps (with the tires removed, they rode on rails). Of the cars, the showstoppers were possibly among the Bugattis. There were a couple of pristine "one-of" Bugattis, and the collection was the most I'd ever seen together. They were brought together to mark the 100th anniversary of the company.

As is the case at these larger-scale events, there was a little something for everyone. There was the authentic available-for-rent, ultra-stretch white limousine (a bit worn), flanked by a generous number of US flags and a generously proportioned platinum blonde (also a bit worn). She was attempting, it appeared, to channel both Dolly Parton and a stiletto boot-lovin' Nevadan good-time girl. (My shots of her were blurred--unfortunately spoiled by my giggling). God bless America's image abroad...The man below had a pretty good setup: his display collapses and locks up for easy towing. Comfortable seating is built in, the better to hawk his "Eclator."

I've long been irritated by the merchandising of, well, everything (I mean beyond the nostalgia selling of old brands, as above). It can incense me, how so many vapidly surround themselves with labels and symbols. You can see Che Guevara's face everywhere on nearly anything, sported by people who have neither an inkling nor interest in what he did and stood for. The T-shirt vendor's display at the Nimes retro car show made me pause, however.

All symbols, not only Che's portrait, have been utterly drained of meaning. Whether historically significant or politically sensitive, they now serve as entertainment-lite, a way to present yourself (perhaps with pretensions toward hipness or irony) to other consumers.

Perhaps I need a glass of wine. And to settle down and play cars with my child.

Squeezed Lemon.

If you really want to come across as a foreigner living in France, you buy yourself a lovely old, dripping with nostalgia, Citroen 2CV, or Deux Chevaux. The charm is so there, my three year old bounces up and down with excitement when he catches sight of one on the road. Alright, I do a little bouncing as well.

Let me qualify this: as a 2CV owner, you are either a (most likely Anglo-Saxon) foreigner, a Luddite with ascetic tendencies, or you're just plain lacking in funds. I, on the other hand, fell very, very hard for an old Fiat Mini 500 sedan (so very Italian, that's how confused I am). Marriage being a series of compromises, we ended up with a moderately used Renault Kangoo. As in "can-go," and not "Mr. Magoo." I know, I didn't quite see the compromise either. It's very French, very campagne, very practical. And in our case, very yellow. In Holland I am teased because the car fits perfectly in the fleet of the Dutch version of AAA, the wegenwacht. In France, however, people run after me to give me their mail.

From my archives, as the Canon's still on strike.

Our profoundly yellow car is just the tiniest bit more golden than those of La Poste, or the French postal service. On the bright side, pun intended, on my monthly forays to the grandes surfaces (department/"box" stores), I never, ever lose my car in the parking lot anymore.

There are certain rites of passage inherent to living in a foreign country. Learning the language, figuring out the local customs, finding your own favorite places. Then there are the extra credit rites of passage, such as getting into a car accident and working your way out of it.

I got extra credit yesterday. Those charming little villages, with their impossibly narrow streets? My daughter takes drawing classes in one. Having picked her up, I was headed home, when I abruptly stopped. Hurtling toward us (on aforementioned impossibly narrow streetlet) was another Kangoo. The driver never slowed, as she evidently considered the road not impossibly narrow. She was wrong. The entire left side of my car needs replacing, as pieces and bits were strewn over Kingdom come. The children and I were left whole. With the suitable dose of adrenaline, I immediately engaged in highly fluent hand-waving, with my eyebrows providing a little additional elan.

After the initial flurry, however, my conclusion is this: things resolve themselves often rather more smoothly in the countryside. After all, you stand a far better chance of running into one another (ahem) in the supermarket/pharmacy/cafe than strangers do in the city. As it turns out, the other driver was a mother of one of the other students in Sophie's drawing class. Never seen her before, but my money's on seeing her very regularly til the end of the school year, knowing the way these things go. And she'll have to wave and say hi, because you cannot ignore a siren yellow Kangoo. Especially one you've already bashed up.