Frustration a la Francaise

Living in France is one of the greatest joys a person could imagine. But, don’t think it’s without frustrations.

Yesterday was one of those days when everyone with whom I came into contact appeared to have gotten up on the wrong side of the bed.  Little things became overwhelming.  I don’t mean to complain but there’s something called real life, being an Expat and/or simply a tourist.

My French is more than adequate or so I like to think. In spite of a very American accent, I make my wishes known. But, there are some things I find next to impossible to communicate and nine out of ten times, they have to do with the phone.

When a number has been changed (and it’s more than likely a 08 number), rather than the recording being said at a slow enough pace to note the new ten-digits, it’s as if the speaker is being paid to speak so quickly, that you have to call back at least four times before being able to glean the number.  Another mystery is why does someone have to pay to speak to an employee of a store that is supposedly in the business of selling things? It’s not my idea of marketing. Each time I hear that a call is being billed at so many cents a minute, I feel my back bristle.

A needed refrigerator repair became all encompassing. After speaking to at least four different offices, I was finally directed to the company’s Paris headquarters. The gentleman who was unfortunate to answer the phone explained I’d need to call yet another number. Poor Simon. After getting an earful, he capitulated in flawless English that he’d have someone from General Electric contact me and that a service person would arrive within 48 hours. Tomorrow, Mr. Technician will appear. He even gave me his cell phone number plus a two-hour arrival window.

Finding a doctor for a minor surgical procedure took on new meaning. Every doctor appears to take off before the 14th of July and returns after the rentrée. Dialing a doctor from the yellow pages became another chore. Suffice it to say, call it frustrating. I’ve now seen two doctors who have taken a pass, one who said I’d need total anesthesia. However, Nelly called her dear friend Bernard (a noted plastic surgeon) and he agreed to see me the next day. It was a totally benign five-minute procedure. What took the longest was numbing my leg.

In the middle of all of this, a woman who has absolutely nothing to do when she’s in Paris visiting her daughter, who works 18 hours a day, called to say she was ever so delighted to find out I was in town. Could we have breakfast, lunch and dinner and shop the sales? Apologetically (sic), I told her I was leaving town. This was not an out and out lie. I’m always leaving the city I love. I simply didn’t say when.

Next  — and if this sounds like a bitch session, it is – my houseguests and I went to Inno, a grocery store that’s owned by Monoprix that’s owned by Galeries Lafayettes. They’ve been running an extensive advertising campaign touting a Carte de fidelite. Sign up and delivery is free. Happy to save nine Euros, I went to the information desk where the clerks are responsible for issuing said cards. They were out of stock: ergo, no free delivery.

Had we not spent two hours filling up the shopping cart with all types of goodies, I would have split. Thank goodness, Melanie, who mans the delivery check out counter took compassion and deleted the delivery fee. Think she didn’t want to see a grown woman cry not to mention throwing a temper tantrum while yelling.

My next outing required hopping on the metro. Naturally, my metro ticket had become demagnetized. Back to the window, where the one employee of the RAPT, was dealing with a tourist after tourist. I waited until she issued a new ticket.

Totally exhausted and frustrated after this day that alternated between rain showers, brilliant sun and thunderstorms, it was definitely time to take a cab. The driver was in rare form with his radio blaring and his air-conditioner turned off. He started telling me his problems. Too much traffic, drivers who didn’t know the rules of the road, etc., etc.

Please — too much information. I made a few calls on my cell phone because it was clear that the driver wasn’t up for being a French teacher.  That’s my rationale for taking cabs. When lucky, I can converse with the driver, find out about the state of France, learn some political gossip and ask a zillion questions. 

As I sit here typing, looking at rooftops, I realize that no matter where a person lives, there are bound to be days filled with frustration. Plus, people who move around, as I do tend to lose contacts. Because of family responsibilities and my being part gypsy, life is not as smooth as it might be were I to stay put.

It’s simply a reality. C’est tout. 

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