Nous Sommes Fous - la deuxième partie (the second part of the move to France)

  It had taken over a year to plan and arrange our retirement to the South of France. More than once, people asked why we wanted to throw ourselves and our life into chaos by moving to a foreign country. Our standard reply was, “Nous sommes fous” (We are crazy.) But really, we were just madly in love with the world we believed was waiting to welcome us.

   Our flight to Paris arrived on time and we went through passport control.  Before customs could clear us, we had to get our luggage and our pets - a large sweetheart of a dog and a very likely teed-off cat.  The journey had been long, but it felt like we had just awakened from a happy dream into a new world full of possibilities.  Even waiting for the luggage to come around on the carousel was interesting as we listened to the surround-sound of French conversations that we only partially understood.

     We collected our bulging bags and asked where we could find our animals.  A kind porter waved a hand over to where the animal kennels were already stacked by the wall.  We realized then that they had been brought out ahead of the regular luggage.  Our pets were both alert and calm.  The cat regarded us with a malefic look that said, “It’s about TIME you showed up!” while our Husky-Rottweiler wagged her tail.  With a quizzical grin she gave a gentle scratch at the grill of the door.  “Soon!” I promised her.

     The kennels filled a baggage cart so we carried our luggage to customs where I expected them to scrutinize our animals and documents carefully.  Such a lot of fuss had been made about blood tests, electronic chips, and special papers to be produced on demand, I was sure they would want to verify that the animals we’d brought were the ones in the files.

     Wrong.  I had not reckoned with the French Lunch Hour.  Make that Two Hours.  The rumpled, tired, blue-uniformed men in the customs office were ringed by boxes and cases of all kinds.  Mountains of paperwork slouched on the counter and camouflaged the desks.  Not one file was profiting from their attentions.  Instead, the men concentrated on their sandwiches, cigarettes, and coffee and pointedly ignored me standing in the doorway.

     My husband said, “Let’s just go.”  “Oh, no,” I insisted, “We have to have them check our papers and see our animals.”  After all, bureaucracy is a French word.  I stepped inside the room and the men looked at me indifferently.  “Messieurs, excuse me, we have just arrived with our dog and cat.  Here are our papers.”  One man chewed, nodded, and said nothing.  The other inclined his gazed slightly to the door where my husband waited with our possibly dangerous, rabies-filled animals.  “Oui, oui, au revoir, Madame,” said the man and waved to my husband to pass on through.  So that was customs.  As we walked toward the rental car kiosk, I was still stammering about their lack of interest.  My husband pointed out that it was not yet after two so it was still the lunch hour and everyone knew this was a sacred time, not to be disturbed.  It seemed he was right….. Welcome to France. 

And so, the next stage of the journey began as we pushed our kennels and lugged our bags to the rental car that would carry us to our new life in the south of France.  (Go to part 3)