LIZ SAYS:
I am just depressed. The workers are behind, surprise, surprise. I just can not take being jerked around. Now the moving date has changed to I don't know when. I have checked out. This becomes Dicks job. I tried my best but evidently I was not convincing enough. I don't know how to deal with liars. Contractors are by nature liars, it seems. They promise the moon and hand your a rock, they say its from the moon, but... . Things are not finished, things are broken. C'est normal. But, I have no way to handle it. We re boxed up, and deliveries are being made, which we can't control. We actually believed the first move in date, fools that we are. So, we set up deliveries for 'after we had moved in'.
The Fixer has to change the dates. My French is not good enough to explain. The workers are now working like they were supposed to be all along.
I just want to cry all the time, I hate feeling foolish.
Its funny in a way. Your home is so important, but the people you deal with just think of it as another deal. Why does that hurt?
I was so happy when we had a date, now that it is not true, I am devastated.
It seems things are running a week or two behind, but that is believing what I am being told at present. Dare I believe?
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Saturday, September 26, 2009
How Much Do I Love Paris?
LIZ SAYS: Dick is back in the States to deal with the selling of the house. It has pased all its inspections and the closing is set for the end of the month.
It has just hit me that this is the end of an era in Madison.
But, I can't get too sad.
Being alone does have its up side.
Adrian phoned to invite me to lunch tomorrow and make sure I was not lonely.
I went for along aimless walk today and listened to the French pop I had downloaded onto my phone. I had not listened to it because Dick and I are usually together. It was very nice. I walked along the river, took photos of people taking photos of each other, which is a project I'm working on.
I notice things that I would just chat through if Dick were here. I went to the bistro on our corner, the Petit Cardinal. I realized that I had learned to eat a burger with a knife and fork, although turning the fork upside down is still a conscious effort. The regulars came out as they smoked and wished me "bon appetit". I realized that I didn't even recognize them, but they noticed me and that I was alone. So, they wished me a good meal, and greeted me to make me feel less alone. We, I, always try to eat outside. I love it. Just sitting on the corner taking in the comings and goings while I down my dinner. We often study our french at the Petit, so we go there almost every day at least once, sometimes twice. Its nothing special, a normal bistro. The food is better than most, but nothing spectacular. In other words, its never going to be in Michelin, but the service is great and the food is very good. I just realized that the smokers noticed me,us, because we are often outside eating. As they come out to smoke, they see us and tonight I was alone, so they said , "Hi". It was sweet.
When you first get here, you notice Parisian waiters are a gruff lot, with their black aprons and white shirts and grunts. But, as time goes on, you learn to understand and love them. One, I met when I first arrived. I call him Buster Keaton, he has the saddest face and a gruff exterior, but he's a sweetheart. He is probably 50ish, but he smokes a lot. He cannot speak english very well, so he makes little grunts in response to things he does not understand. It made him seem mean until I understood he just didn't get what I was saying. Now, he amuses me. I, so want to see him smile, just to see what it looks like.
The other waiter is Vahnsahnt (Vincent). He is younger and has the greatest poker face.
His lips just barely curl up on the edges if he is amused by our accents or happy about a tip. He told us his name once he realized we came so often. He speaks a little English, and would clearly be more friendly if only we could talk to him! We can count on him to pronounce a verb for us, which I think he gets a kick out of. He knows our order for coffee with milk and water, by heart and recites it to us every time we sit down, then the corners mouth curl just a bit. I was able to tell him that Dick was back in the States for a week and he sympathized.
So, even though, I'm alone, I feel safe and cared for. That may seem like a lot to extract from dinner and an aimless walkabout but, that's me and that's Paris.
It has just hit me that this is the end of an era in Madison.
But, I can't get too sad.
Being alone does have its up side.
Adrian phoned to invite me to lunch tomorrow and make sure I was not lonely.
I went for along aimless walk today and listened to the French pop I had downloaded onto my phone. I had not listened to it because Dick and I are usually together. It was very nice. I walked along the river, took photos of people taking photos of each other, which is a project I'm working on.
I notice things that I would just chat through if Dick were here. I went to the bistro on our corner, the Petit Cardinal. I realized that I had learned to eat a burger with a knife and fork, although turning the fork upside down is still a conscious effort. The regulars came out as they smoked and wished me "bon appetit". I realized that I didn't even recognize them, but they noticed me and that I was alone. So, they wished me a good meal, and greeted me to make me feel less alone. We, I, always try to eat outside. I love it. Just sitting on the corner taking in the comings and goings while I down my dinner. We often study our french at the Petit, so we go there almost every day at least once, sometimes twice. Its nothing special, a normal bistro. The food is better than most, but nothing spectacular. In other words, its never going to be in Michelin, but the service is great and the food is very good. I just realized that the smokers noticed me,us, because we are often outside eating. As they come out to smoke, they see us and tonight I was alone, so they said , "Hi". It was sweet.
When you first get here, you notice Parisian waiters are a gruff lot, with their black aprons and white shirts and grunts. But, as time goes on, you learn to understand and love them. One, I met when I first arrived. I call him Buster Keaton, he has the saddest face and a gruff exterior, but he's a sweetheart. He is probably 50ish, but he smokes a lot. He cannot speak english very well, so he makes little grunts in response to things he does not understand. It made him seem mean until I understood he just didn't get what I was saying. Now, he amuses me. I, so want to see him smile, just to see what it looks like.
The other waiter is Vahnsahnt (Vincent). He is younger and has the greatest poker face.
His lips just barely curl up on the edges if he is amused by our accents or happy about a tip. He told us his name once he realized we came so often. He speaks a little English, and would clearly be more friendly if only we could talk to him! We can count on him to pronounce a verb for us, which I think he gets a kick out of. He knows our order for coffee with milk and water, by heart and recites it to us every time we sit down, then the corners mouth curl just a bit. I was able to tell him that Dick was back in the States for a week and he sympathized.
So, even though, I'm alone, I feel safe and cared for. That may seem like a lot to extract from dinner and an aimless walkabout but, that's me and that's Paris.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Time is on your side... for once
Here at Liz and Dick a go go we're always trying to help you maximize the efficient use of your time. To that end, we've added a clock feature to our ever expanding tale of intercontinental migration. Now, thanks to our new analog clock feature, you can discover at a glance whether Parisians are having their morning coffee or typical midwestern folk are having their malted beverages while you're rambling 'round the Web. See how helpful that is?
Monday, January 5, 2009
something i thought i'd never do
LIZ SAYS: Today, I did something I thought I'd never do, voluntarily at least. I was fingerprinted.
The woman who with her surgically gloved hand tells you to "try not to help me", attempts to control a hand that you try to make limp. All the time, the image for a thousand movies, a million TV shows, goes through your head. Next comes the mug shot, front then side, but wait, there is no proceeding crime scene. This is going to the FBI to prove I'm no threat, that I've never done this before. A good conduct record = the absence of a record which you prove by giving your fingerprints to the FBI, to find or not. Bizarre. Having to prove that I haven't done anything by doing something associated with doing something.
The French have made me do a thing I would never have imagined doing voluntarily.
It's sort of like going to the doctor and having him/her say 'relax'. You immediately cinch up, you try to make your hand go limp but then there are all those images, "Top of the world, Ma!" (maniacal laughter).
The police department is moving or being refurbished in Madison and the temporary, I assume, headquarters for the fingerprinting was through the basement which smelled strongly of canned vegetable soup. You found the window through which you pay and then crossed over to the next window to the fingerprinter. Both windows in the same room but neither person seemed to communicate with the other and that soupy smell.
Then you go through the forever beige door to the fingerprinting room. Dick had been fingerprinted before. As a child, he had toured the FBI, who evidently give the kids a thrill by fingerprinting them and letting them listen to the ear splitting chop of a tommy gun. I, on the other hand was lost in my Hitchcockian fear of authority, hoping my hands had never been anywhere that could cause me to be accused. "...but I didn't ... your honor", walking down a long hall with the jail door striped shadows cast on the wall.
But, then she showed me the industrial sized plastic tub of "washwipe" or whatever it was called, the ink melted off my hands, I put the cards in the envelope, with the $18 money orders and sent them to the FBI. Up to four weeks from now, I'll have my fingerprints back on a card stamped 'no record', approved as a good citizen of my home country, possibly acceptable to you, Monsieur? C'est bon?
The woman who with her surgically gloved hand tells you to "try not to help me", attempts to control a hand that you try to make limp. All the time, the image for a thousand movies, a million TV shows, goes through your head. Next comes the mug shot, front then side, but wait, there is no proceeding crime scene. This is going to the FBI to prove I'm no threat, that I've never done this before. A good conduct record = the absence of a record which you prove by giving your fingerprints to the FBI, to find or not. Bizarre. Having to prove that I haven't done anything by doing something associated with doing something.
The French have made me do a thing I would never have imagined doing voluntarily.
It's sort of like going to the doctor and having him/her say 'relax'. You immediately cinch up, you try to make your hand go limp but then there are all those images, "Top of the world, Ma!" (maniacal laughter).
The police department is moving or being refurbished in Madison and the temporary, I assume, headquarters for the fingerprinting was through the basement which smelled strongly of canned vegetable soup. You found the window through which you pay and then crossed over to the next window to the fingerprinter. Both windows in the same room but neither person seemed to communicate with the other and that soupy smell.
Then you go through the forever beige door to the fingerprinting room. Dick had been fingerprinted before. As a child, he had toured the FBI, who evidently give the kids a thrill by fingerprinting them and letting them listen to the ear splitting chop of a tommy gun. I, on the other hand was lost in my Hitchcockian fear of authority, hoping my hands had never been anywhere that could cause me to be accused. "...but I didn't ... your honor", walking down a long hall with the jail door striped shadows cast on the wall.
But, then she showed me the industrial sized plastic tub of "washwipe" or whatever it was called, the ink melted off my hands, I put the cards in the envelope, with the $18 money orders and sent them to the FBI. Up to four weeks from now, I'll have my fingerprints back on a card stamped 'no record', approved as a good citizen of my home country, possibly acceptable to you, Monsieur? C'est bon?
Monday, December 29, 2008
New Location! Liz And Dick a Go Go
LIZ SAYS:
Okay, I have always wanted to title this Liz And Dick a Go Go but Dick set it up and we never got around to changing it. Well, just did it so, new location, click:
http://lizanddickagogo.blogspot.com/
and don't forget to change the bookmark ;-}.
cheers! and Happy New Year!
Okay, I have always wanted to title this Liz And Dick a Go Go but Dick set it up and we never got around to changing it. Well, just did it so, new location, click:
http://lizanddickagogo.blogspot.com/
and don't forget to change the bookmark ;-}.
cheers! and Happy New Year!
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Blog maken
Liz says: Encouraged by Dick, I've decided to add a few words. Its Christmas eve and we are in the Amsterdam airport, I am evidently 'Blog maken'. Okay, Dutch is the hardest language I have heard to date. It stunned me when she, the flight attendant started to speak on the plane in dutch, I had never heard it before and it doesn't sound a thing like it looks. Somewhere between blurgs and bduch's, I cannot imagine trying this one!
I am judging my mental blur by playing scrabble and seeing how long it takes me to finish a game. We should walk around a little, I know, but all I want to do is sleep. We have been up since 5, the place is dull as warm milk and its foggy outside, so you can't see much past the parked planes. The Christmas music is driving me crazy, as usual! Soft calming music always makes me nuts! Judging singularly from the airport, the Dutch are no nonsense people. Everything is very clean, plentiful and straight-forward. Of course, its cruel to judge anyone from their airports ;-}. But, hey, that's where I am.
It is wonderful to hear the symphony of languages and accents, everyone is flying on Christmas Eve, so there are no expectations of getting anywhere on time or doing anything except waiting out the weather or whatever. It is evidently blowing hard in the States, so, maybe we will get to Minneapolis, or maybe we will be stuck in Amsterdam. Be careful what you ask for, it just might be funny!
In Transit
After a final meeting with the fixer at a familiar--although hardly outstanding--cafe, Liz and went back to the bank for a meeting with Madame.... Oh, that's right, she conveniently forgot to give her name when she promised to call "demain" with information about yet another
twist in the never ending game that is French-style banking. At least, the normally brusque gatekeeper at the front desk was pleasant, but since she speaks no English and my cheat sheet French is good for ordering meals, navigating transportation options, basic shopping and little else, not much pertinent information was exchanged.
Both of our personal bankers had taken off for a 5-day holiday (we've learned that this is the French way, when it comes to one-day national holidays), but fortunately, the young guy who speaks a tiny bit of English was there and after many apologetic merci's and sil vous plait's, I was able to get a relatively straightforward answer to my question. Not of course before the guy frowned and disappeared into the copier room for 15 minutes or so to a) speak with a colleague, b) make some copies c) curse "Monsieur Laskin" for returning and d) make plans for a post-work trip to the cafe, but that was to be expected. At the bank, nothing happens fast or with any sense of finality. Day after day, the same people return, apparently asking the same questions and receiving the same inadequate responses to their needs.
Anyhow, it was the day before we had to fly back to the States, so we didn't want to get too wrapped up in the bureaucratic web. They'll be plenty more of that to deal with later. Liz suggested a trip to a favorite stocking/stretchy body clothing store, and I obliged. The highpoint of the excursion was a stop for crepes Grand Marnier and a cafe ligieos. Then it was back to the apartment, where we did the final pack. Liz noticed that one of the walls was peeling high up in the corner near the ceiling, which indicated to me that some tenant--with luck not us--will eventually have to deal with the damage being done by the upstairs neighbors' leaky pipes. Curiously, this kink in the perfection of this very well-kept apartment also made me feel better about living amidst white furniture, white appliances, white walls, white bedding, off-white chairs.... Well, you get the idea. If the pipes are gonna to blow eventually, why should I keep worrying about the consequences of getting a wayward drop of tea on the white drywall back splash?
More later. We're currently in a lounge at the Amsterdam airport waiting for a flight. Lots of cheese and a few things with chocolate in them and, curiously, a big urn of cream of chicken soup. Apparently it's a Dutch delicacy. I haven't been to the Netherlands in 30 years, but the vibe hasn't changed. Everyone looks quite cleaned and press and tall glasses of Heineken are everywhere.
twist in the never ending game that is French-style banking. At least, the normally brusque gatekeeper at the front desk was pleasant, but since she speaks no English and my cheat sheet French is good for ordering meals, navigating transportation options, basic shopping and little else, not much pertinent information was exchanged.
Both of our personal bankers had taken off for a 5-day holiday (we've learned that this is the French way, when it comes to one-day national holidays), but fortunately, the young guy who speaks a tiny bit of English was there and after many apologetic merci's and sil vous plait's, I was able to get a relatively straightforward answer to my question. Not of course before the guy frowned and disappeared into the copier room for 15 minutes or so to a) speak with a colleague, b) make some copies c) curse "Monsieur Laskin" for returning and d) make plans for a post-work trip to the cafe, but that was to be expected. At the bank, nothing happens fast or with any sense of finality. Day after day, the same people return, apparently asking the same questions and receiving the same inadequate responses to their needs.
Anyhow, it was the day before we had to fly back to the States, so we didn't want to get too wrapped up in the bureaucratic web. They'll be plenty more of that to deal with later. Liz suggested a trip to a favorite stocking/stretchy body clothing store, and I obliged. The highpoint of the excursion was a stop for crepes Grand Marnier and a cafe ligieos. Then it was back to the apartment, where we did the final pack. Liz noticed that one of the walls was peeling high up in the corner near the ceiling, which indicated to me that some tenant--with luck not us--will eventually have to deal with the damage being done by the upstairs neighbors' leaky pipes. Curiously, this kink in the perfection of this very well-kept apartment also made me feel better about living amidst white furniture, white appliances, white walls, white bedding, off-white chairs.... Well, you get the idea. If the pipes are gonna to blow eventually, why should I keep worrying about the consequences of getting a wayward drop of tea on the white drywall back splash?
More later. We're currently in a lounge at the Amsterdam airport waiting for a flight. Lots of cheese and a few things with chocolate in them and, curiously, a big urn of cream of chicken soup. Apparently it's a Dutch delicacy. I haven't been to the Netherlands in 30 years, but the vibe hasn't changed. Everyone looks quite cleaned and press and tall glasses of Heineken are everywhere.
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