International Man of Love
First weeks at something new are always exciting. There`s that first week at school. The first week at the new job. The first week of vacation. And for some of you, the first week of parenthood. My first week as a French citizen went much like the first week of an exciting new relationship.
First, I got stood up. Some French telecom company was supposed to come to the apartment and install a phone line and internet. They weren’t here by noon, so I rolled out of bed and around the corner to the bus stop to pick up transport to work. The bus. And like any new relationship, out of shear ignorance, I got off the bus at the wrong stop and had to walk the extra kilometre(s) to work.
Second, the first attempt on my life was taken. After landing in Bàle, Switzerland an hour late, my pre-arranged taxi driver, looking mad as hell and like he just cleaned out a Safeway grocery, escorted me quickly to the front seat of his taxi-like Mercedes. A spittin` of Fat Tony from the Simpsons, only fatter. And German. So we`ll call him, Fat Hans. With a top speed of 220 km/hr, he turned what was once a 45-50 min. trip to Freiburg into a 20-25 minute, white knuckle, midnight sleigh-ride through the dense fog-filled fields of southwestern Germany. Did I mess my drawers? Slightly. But I new that like any new relationship, I`d be at the hotel in a matter of minutes, providing me with the necessary resources I would need to wash, change, and watch TV. One guess as to who was at the office the next day, waiting to take me to the airport. . .
Third, my stash got discovered. Imagine my surprise when, upon passing through security at the airport, security personnel requested to search my backpack and discovered my zip-lock bag of catnip. As I offered my wrists forward, crossing one another, knowing I had little chance of successfully explaining this one to the Swiss airport security, three more armed personnel rushed over to see what the commotion was. As they all smiled, said foreign words and pursed their lips behind their pressed thumb and forefinger, pointing at me, I knew right then and there, these guys were blazers. And I was off the hook. And as with any new relationship, I offered to roll my new friend(s) a fatty, packed with catnip. They politely declined.
Fourth, I got raped. And not the fun kind every guy wishes for by the fourth day of the relationship. Apparently, if you want to make money in France, you open a bank and charge people more than they earn. I opened two accounts, both now containing a combined total of 36 €, and already I owe 156 € in fees. Bank card fees, internet banking fees, transfer fees, insurance fees, making more money than the Conseiller Clientéle de Particuliers fees. Before I knew it, Audrey`s foot was ankle deep, asking me if I was married, and I was asking where I needed to sign. God, she was hott.
What better way to end the first week of my new, exciting relationship than to go house shopping. I can`t think of one either. This could prove a long paragraph with poor transitions, incoherent run-on sentences and colourful descriptions of both beautiful villas and apartments owned by Canadians that aren’t fit for the homeless. So I`ll leave you with this: yes, we found a new home. But whether or not we actually get it, when and how, is not yet known.
First, I got stood up. Some French telecom company was supposed to come to the apartment and install a phone line and internet. They weren’t here by noon, so I rolled out of bed and around the corner to the bus stop to pick up transport to work. The bus. And like any new relationship, out of shear ignorance, I got off the bus at the wrong stop and had to walk the extra kilometre(s) to work.
Second, the first attempt on my life was taken. After landing in Bàle, Switzerland an hour late, my pre-arranged taxi driver, looking mad as hell and like he just cleaned out a Safeway grocery, escorted me quickly to the front seat of his taxi-like Mercedes. A spittin` of Fat Tony from the Simpsons, only fatter. And German. So we`ll call him, Fat Hans. With a top speed of 220 km/hr, he turned what was once a 45-50 min. trip to Freiburg into a 20-25 minute, white knuckle, midnight sleigh-ride through the dense fog-filled fields of southwestern Germany. Did I mess my drawers? Slightly. But I new that like any new relationship, I`d be at the hotel in a matter of minutes, providing me with the necessary resources I would need to wash, change, and watch TV. One guess as to who was at the office the next day, waiting to take me to the airport. . .
Third, my stash got discovered. Imagine my surprise when, upon passing through security at the airport, security personnel requested to search my backpack and discovered my zip-lock bag of catnip. As I offered my wrists forward, crossing one another, knowing I had little chance of successfully explaining this one to the Swiss airport security, three more armed personnel rushed over to see what the commotion was. As they all smiled, said foreign words and pursed their lips behind their pressed thumb and forefinger, pointing at me, I knew right then and there, these guys were blazers. And I was off the hook. And as with any new relationship, I offered to roll my new friend(s) a fatty, packed with catnip. They politely declined.
Fourth, I got raped. And not the fun kind every guy wishes for by the fourth day of the relationship. Apparently, if you want to make money in France, you open a bank and charge people more than they earn. I opened two accounts, both now containing a combined total of 36 €, and already I owe 156 € in fees. Bank card fees, internet banking fees, transfer fees, insurance fees, making more money than the Conseiller Clientéle de Particuliers fees. Before I knew it, Audrey`s foot was ankle deep, asking me if I was married, and I was asking where I needed to sign. God, she was hott.
What better way to end the first week of my new, exciting relationship than to go house shopping. I can`t think of one either. This could prove a long paragraph with poor transitions, incoherent run-on sentences and colourful descriptions of both beautiful villas and apartments owned by Canadians that aren’t fit for the homeless. So I`ll leave you with this: yes, we found a new home. But whether or not we actually get it, when and how, is not yet known.
