Nous Sommes Fous - le quatrième partie (the 4th part of the move to France)

  How much did we really want to retire to the South of France? Enough to join 20 million Frenchmen on the road going south….that was when we knew it was true…"Nous sommes fous!” (We are insane).

Sometimes it really does helps to be downright crazy....

     We were sardined into our rental car with our pets and baggage speeding down the giant Auto-route from Paris to the south of France. The rain began to fall and it was a grey autumn day. Fatigue was creeping up on us and we knew it was time for a break. Our French was limited but thankfully the highway style signs used pictograms and numbers. They told that we were coming up on an “Aire d’Autoroutiere”. This - judging by the pictures - meant a rest stop with gasoline, food, WCs, and a picnic area.

      In the well-organized complex we parked near a sign depicting a person walking a dog on a leash. Cautiously, I reached into the cat carrier and hooked our large, grumpy cat to his leash while my husband called our dog out. She jumped out gracefully then stood patiently, wagging and waiting while he attached her leash. The cat gave me a look that said, “Try that again sucker, and I’ll tag you!” Then he realized that I’d left the carrier door open. Like a bullet, he shot forth from his prison. This magnificent little lion of a cat pulled as hard as he could to extend his leash to its limit and then walked well ahead of us to show that he was definitely an independent cat.

     The four of us made our way to the pet zone. It was our first walk in fresh air since the 10-hour flight from the states and 2 hours on the Auto-route. It was exhilarating! The air was misty and cool. The grass was treacherous ground from the constant use of many animal visitors. The dog understood exactly what was expected of her. Our cat pulled to the right hid under a bush. I waited and eventually he realized why we were there.    

     Upon our return to the vehicle, the dog again waited patiently while the car was unlocked. I opened the cat carrier and gently lifted our fluffy feline off the ground. My husband watched bemusedly as the cat, suddenly inspired, wrestled himself from my arms and streaked across the top of the carrier. His path was marked by the length of extension leash. He continued his flight over the front seats and planted himself on the floor at the front of the car. Thankfully, it was on the passenger-side. “I guess he’s riding there,” I said. The dog didn't need anyone to tell her what to do. She jumped into the back and curled up in the half-shell of her kennel. We locked the car and went into the mini-mall area for our own comfort break and to refuel ourselves with food and drink.

     The mini-mall was bright, well laid out, and filled with people intent on purchases or getting to the stadium worthy public washrooms that were immaculate. We bought a can of soda wandered from stall to stall and went in and then out of the fast food franchises that were there. Sadly for us, their menu boards lacked anything for vegetarians beyond the traditional simple green salad made only of lettuce, French fries, or desserts. We had visited France before, though, and knew well that this was “Très normale”. We had always known that part of retiring to France as vegetarians was going to include a lot of flexible dining and perseverance.

     Neither of us was in the mood for French fries as our first taste of retired life in France. Resigned, we headed back outside giving our first ever Gallic shrugs. “C’est la vie!” we grinned. We figured we’d buy a bottle of water at the gas station and unpack the emergency snacks we’d brought from the States. Maybe this would finally be the beginning of that low-cal diet we'd been meaning to start for years...  Welcome to France.

And so we were feeling a bit empty and in need of sustenance.  That was when fate took us by the hand (or perhaps by the nose) as you will see in the next installment of “Nous Sommes Fous! Part 5”

Nous Sommes Fous - la troisième partie (the third part of the move to France)

Traveling, it is universally agreed, makes people act mad.  Traveling with pets in this fashion proves it’s no act.  Sometimes it really does help to be crazy...

     It was late October in Paris.  The baggage cart sagged under the load we had brought to begin our retirement to France.  We stood in the parking lot at the Charles De Gaulle Airport at Roissy and considered the rental car.  We had asked for a large one.  A second look at the documents proved this was the car assigned to us.  We looked at one another in dismay.  When we had booked, we had explained carefully that we had tall kennels and had paid extra for the larger car.  This was a low profile station wagon.  Back to the rental desk we trudged.  “Non,” the girl at the kiosk sighed, “z’ere ees no larger car.”  She gave a winning smile as if that would help.  It didn’t.  We retraced our steps to the miniature station wagon and my husband worked out the logistics.

     Fortunately, the cat kennel was not a problem and we put it in without letting the cat out.  “Sorry, Maleah,” I said to him, “we’ll find a rest stop soon.”  The cat had heard these kinds of lies before so he simply glared at me.  The dog kennel, on the other hand, could not enter through any door.  It was going to need disassembling.  I walked the dog around the parking lot while my husband worked on the creative geometry that would allow the station wagon to hold all our belongings and yet leave room for us as well.

     I apologized to my dog for the lack of grass or trees and promised again that soon, we would find them.  Our dog was good.  I suppose she had avoided drinking during the long flight and so we ambled around without incident.  That is until we encountered a lady with a small, blood-thirsty mutt who threatened to eat my dog, me, or possibly both of us.  Thankfully, it was on a leash so we took a few steps sideways and escaped to our car while, behind us, the lady wasn’t the least bit apologetic and instead, laughed heartily.  She bobbed her head, smiled and yelled something to me in French about how wonderfully savage dogs were.  Our own dog, being an angel, ignored this and walked at my side.  We returned to the car and she jumped into the back section, curling up in the only space left.  “Can you stand a two day drive with these two cases by your feet?” my spouse asked hopefully.  “Pas de problem,” I said.  I levered myself in and consulted the map as we pulled out.  “Follow those arrows and turn right at the highway,” I told him.  I was wrong.  So wrong.  

    An hour later we were passing the airport once again (going in the right direction) and soon joined the stop-and-go traffic of the Parisian periphery roads. This was more like it.  The cars crept along.  Time passed and finally we saw the large, beautiful sign that read “SUD” (south) and left the city behind.  Traffic was still heavy but at least it was moving and the overcast day suddenly felt sunny.  The four lanes were already insufficient for the number of cars heading south when the lanes converged to become only three.  Some of the maneuvers of the trucks made me sure they were elastic.    

     We listened to jazz and watched in amazement as the blur of one car after another overtook us.  Although we were driving the 130 kilometer per hour speed limit, they made us feel like we were crawling.  It didn’t matter.  We wanted to arrive alive.  Destiny beckoned and she had all the time in the world.  The mad drivers wove in and out of the far-left lane and the center lane jam-packed with giant trucks whose gravity tugged us ever to the left.  We resolutely stayed in the right lane and watched as both cars and trucks raced one another in the two fast lanes.  Every now and then, an absolutely insane motorcyclist would arrive and thread through the space between the trucks and ourselves before disappearing quickly from view.  Even as my husband put his foot down and the speedometer hit 140, we were the snails in the slow lane….Welcome to France.

And that was our initiation to the world of French drivers.  The surprising part was that we never saw a single pile up or accident as we raced to the south of France.  Join us next time...when we prove that "Nous sommes fous!" (We are Crazy - Part 4)  

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)

Nous Sommes Fous - la première partie (the 1st part of the move to France)

 Someone once claimed that we all have a strand of crazy.  But how much do you have to have to want to retire to the South of France? Let the adventure begin! 

     Sometimes it really helps to be just a little mad.  Especially if you plan to pick up your life and move it half way around the world.  So, when people asked us why we were retiring to the south of France, we would grin and say, “Nous sommes fous,” which translates as, “We are crazy.”  This satisfied our friends since a few of them already had suspicions about our sanity and the rest had no doubts at all.

    To those who wanted more specifics, we explained that we wanted our retirement to be completely different from anything that we’d done before.  We had fallen in love with the country and its people on previous visits and besides, we really were crazy.  By the time we completed the applications, provided stacks of required documents, been interviewed and paid our fees, we were pretty giddy.  A few months later, an official letter arrived granting us permission for a one -year stay.  As we danced for joy, only the weight of our shoes kept us from floating right off the planet.

   The moving truck brought a freight container and took all of our household goods and our dear little car.  One day, if all went well, we would see them again.  Now all we had were our dog and cat, their carriers, a guitar, a laptop and our jam-packed suitcases.  For the next week, we slept on an air mattress in the empty house and ate simple meals.  Final bills were paid and services canceled.  We checked, re-checked, and triple checked that we had every bit of official paperwork needed to enter France correctly.   

     Finally, we set off on our long-imagined journey.  Only one hotel near the airport permitted pets.  Sadly, it was a grimy and possibly flea-ridden pre-fab.  Memory has since blotted out the aromas.  In our elation, we shrugged it off as one of the hardships of travel with pets.  We spent the evening taking several walks with our animals.  We had a pizza delivered so as not to leave them alone.  That would come soon enough.  Finally, sometime after midnight, we settled in, set the alarm, and fell asleep from complete exhaustion.

     Morning came and, as pre-arranged, the professional pet handler came to take our animals to the airport for special loading.  She was wonderful and calm.  She re-assured us that their flight, in the roomy carriers that allowed them to stretch out, would be more comfortable than ours.  The lady reminded us that the animal hold was pressurized, well-lit, and heated.  My husband and I watched as she drove away and hoped it was all true.  We drove the rental car to the airport and checked in for the flight.

     The butterflies in my stomach threatened to lift me off the floor with every step I took and it was a relief when some time later we boarded the Air France flight.  The service was excellent and the food amazingly good for airline fare.  Mercifully, we were far from the two babies on the flight.  Hours later, we stepped out on French soil, well - airport floors actually, and followed the crowd to stand in line. 

       At passport control, we presented our papers and asked the official in our best French, “S’il vous plait, Tamponez-les pour notre cartes sejour.” (Please stamp these for our long-stay cards)  “D’accord,” (okay)  the man in the rumpled blue uniform yawned.  As we walked on through the stile, I looked at my passport.  The date was illegible.  I ran back to the official to ask if he would re-stamp it and he yawned again, shook his head, and said, “Pas besoin, Madame.”(No need, lady).  Suddenly, I knew where the phrase, “laisser-faire” (let it be) had come from…Welcome to France.

And so the adventure began, and we had made it half-way around the world in one piece.  Next, we would have to find our way south - just the two of us, our menagerie, and 20 million French drivers in Nous Sommes Fous - Part 2.