Broken

I write this post as I contemplate what my next activity should be. Mess around with the phone and Internet box in the hopes that I will retrieve my service? I can’t call the English-speaking helpline from my mobile since I only have one hour of minutes per month (although not according to the consommation log that my friend, Ben, helped me track down on my phone. My “Origami Star” plan was not what popped up. Just another headache to endure). Or, should I rehearse what I am going to say when I need to place the call to discuss what I believe to be a large flub on the end of our relocation company? I would say that to you in French, but I can’t since my lessons have yet to commence, and have been on hold due to a contract that was signed on my behalf, prior to my consent. And then there is the broken window in our foyer that happened when the less-than-desirable mirrored wardrobe fell apart mid-close and took a pane of glass out with it. Two stories down the glass cascaded, making its landing in the courtyard known. Currently there is a large white paper bag playing the role of the window pane (just another case of shopping saving the day!). Good thing it snowed here today and we don’t have heat. Yet, I have no idea of who to call, how to call, and this point, if I can even call.

When I think about the highs over the last few days, there is one common theme: America. The fabulous packages we have received -- from our friends and family in America. The goodies that were to be found upon opening the packages, such as my now highly coveted American staple, peanut butter. Every morning starts off on a better note because of my peanut butter toast. The Trader Joe’s brownies and Valentine’s Day icing will be stowed away for a day when it will double as therapy. In addition, the very thoughtfully selected books and magazines -- in English. I am in need of important U.S. information that CNN does not cover over here, like what is happening with Brangelina. Lest I not forget the phone conversations I had this weekend -- to America. The phone is no substitute for the person. But to pick up the phone and call home to ask about the recipe for Buckeye Balls (which by the way did not work -- apparently chocolate does not melt the same in France), or to chat with my dad after a day on the slopes in Vermont, leads to a comfort that I can’t seem to find here (except for when it is me, a spoon and the jar of Nutella). Just like our window “pain” (sorry, I have to get my kicks anyway I can these days), I, too, am feeling broken. Torn between my want to be at ease and to feel the acclimation beginning, yet not wanting to let go of my heritage and who I am, and my current needs.

Whereas most friends sit in a café and gossip, Benot and I sat and made a list. As someone who has known me since high school, he can sense that I am in need of a friend (a friend who speaks French). The more we chatted, the more I started to feel sorry for myself. He is so willing to assist, and yet the more we talked, the more I realize I simply can’t do on my own. I can’t go into Orange and give them a piece of my mind for improperly setting up our international plan. Or for that matter, fill out the form when they need to reimburse us for their mistake. I can’t go into the local Société Générale and ask to make that branch my banking location, instead of walking six miles to get to my current one (where I still have yet to get word that my new ATM card is in). I can’t even buy the proper laundry detergent (or sugar for that matter -- two trips last night to Franprix to get sucre glace, a.k.a powdered sugar). Then there is the doctor. Ben went over at length with me how the system works, but to make sure I bring any reimbursement forms to him for help, since it took him about five years to figure out -- and he is a brilliant French-speaking Parisian! This would be after we even get our cards, as we have yet to see them. I made a pact with him that if I needed help, regardless of where I was, I would stop, SMS him (with a picture, if applicable) and swallow my pride. All I really want to do is swallow a large spoonful of peanut butter and polish it off with a Betty Crocker cupcake, after purchasing them at a Giant.

As the saying goes, I know I can’t have my cake and eat it too. But how about just the frosting? Or the cake without the frosting? Who am I kidding? At this point I would settle for the cupcake wrapper...wrinkled and with someone else’s cooties.