The Magical Journey Of A Velib Card

Yesterday morning I was walking down the hallway on the way to the front door of my building, when I saw the blur of a man's face, his nose pressed against the glazed glass of the door. I could tell he was peering and squinting, trying to see inside. I was almost afraid to open the door, in case he might tumble in. But, open it I did.

Bonjour!
Ah! Bonjour Madame!

We both laughed. He was holding a FedEx package. I stood there, inside the hallway, holding the door open. He stood out on the sidewalk, holding his package. We both laughed again. He said, "Were you just leaving?" And I said yes. So, he stepped aside so I could step out, and he could step in.

Then he started to speak French, asking me a question, and pointing to the package. I figured he was trying to find out where to deliver the package, since the mailbox slots wouldn't accept the FedEx envelope, and there's no clear indication on the mailboxes where people live. You could figure it out, but it would take a while.

I usually interrupt somebody by this point, and tell them I don't speak French. Which is probably something I need to change because, even though my vocabulary and verb conjugation is lacking, my accent is pretty good, so it never seems quite right to say it. It would be like you asking me a question and me saying, in a perfect Arizona accent, "Sorry, but I don't speak English." Huh? Anyway, this time, I just let him keep talking, and when he pointed to the name on the FedEx package, and then pointed inside, I took a look at the name, and it was me.

C'est moi!
Non!
Oui, C'est moi!

We were already enjoying the first coincidence, that at the very moment he was realizing he didn't have a code to get into the building, and so he probably wouldn't be able to deliver the package, I opened the door. But now, as he looked inside the building and realized he probably wasn't going to be able to figure out how to find a certain Lisa Wines, she was the very person standing in front of him.

We laughed again. He shook his head in amazement, and then asked me if I had a husband. Ahem. I said no, and then he went on and on, I think he was telling me that he lived right around the corner. Sorry, dude. You might be my coinkidink of the morning, but you're not coming over for tea anytime soon. I changed the subject.

Voudriez-vous voir mon identification?
Bah, way.

So, I showed him my ID. He peered down at it, just as he had peered through the glass door. I think he might need some glasses. Then he smiled and handed me his clipboard so I could sign for the package. As I signed, he talked and talked and talked and I smiled and smiled, absolutely clueless. But, if he's like most guys, it was all about him. How do you yawn in French?

With my official signature placed in the official pink slot (I was careful not to write outside the dotted lines), I was given my package. There are rules in France, and signing papers, in quadruplicate, sextuplet and until you're a septuagenarian, is something one must do at least 24.6 times in between making the coffee in the morning, and going to bed at night.

My FedEx boyfriend followed me back to the sidewalk, smiling and shaking his head at his, and my, bon chance.

In fact, when I thought about it on the Metro, I was definitely lucky. If I hadn't have been there at that exact moment to open the door, that package would have gone back to some deep, dark holding bin in some central FedEx facility in Paris, and MAYBE a note would have been stuck on the front door of my building, which I MIGHT have received through some divine intervention, which would, in triplicate, direct me to the facility, probably on the far outskirts of Paris, where I would have had to have shown up, between 11:05 and 1:00 or 3:08 and 4:10, Tuesdays through Thursdays, unless there is a national strike, a school holiday, or the employees decided they needed a break. There, I would have to stand in line for many minutes, only to arrive at the kiosk when the employee must go on break, and so I wait some more, until finally, I give them my little form, which they separate into three color-coded pages and stamp 2 of them and sign one of them and then I sign 3 of them and then they demand my ID, which, if I am not French, must include my passport. Since I already learned this bitter lesson one too many times, I would have had the passport with me.

And then maybe, just maybe, they would sit back and look at me and decide if they want me to have the package or not. Because the clerk has all the power, and I have none. I would have been smiling at them from the beginning, starting out with a hearty, full-eye-contact Bonjour Madame! or Bonjour Monsieur! Because the greeting and the eye contact are critical components of French bureaucratic finesse. I have learned a thing or too in this lovely country. Yes, I have.

And now, my friend Fiachna will be happy to know that by some miracle, in defiance of all the odds of Frenchnoscity, his Velib bike rental card has arrived, after enjoying a little sequestered voyage across the ocean in my niece's scented jeans pocket, and upon discovery (thankfully before hitting the washing machine), was sent back across the ocean, to me. It will just be another excuse for Fiachna and I to share a bottle of wine and wonder again, at the magic of life in France.

Geeknoscity

I love The Science Blogs. I know, I know. I'm a geek. Yes I am. But, when nobody was looking, I added their feed to my feedreader, and every day I get insider viewpoints on a much-maligned and dismissed sector of our society (at least during the BushCo admin) - the people who actually have brains, versus the Creationists, who DON'T.

ANYhoo! There's also a girl scientist who calls herself Isis The Scientist, and wears bright yellow come-fuck-me pumps, uses satire and says fuckalot... especially when under the influence of Nyquil. She, and such behavior, are of course, right up my alley.

I'm baaaack

With the bestest haircut ever. A spirit-lifting pre-birthday present for myself. (I start celebrating really early, and keep on celebrating for as long as I can get away with it, or until my friends say, "Enough! Happy birthday, already!) Thirtee-seven bucks is all it cost me. Plus a really nice conversation with Natalie as she shredded heaps o' hair, and premature old age, off of my head. Natalie spent 12 years in New York with her husband. He was working in the film industry, on such shows as The Sopranos.

I'm just glad she came back to Paris so she could cut my hair.

So, here I am...almost 52. Oh, and by the way, that's my natural color. Cool, huh?

Couldn't Have Said It Better

If you're viewing this post in an email, please click through to my blog to view the video and find out how some other girl read my mind and said exactly what I'm thinking. Right now, at this very moment. The world is a small place, and all us girls are one.