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.