Chapter 82 – I could have been worse…it could always be worse

August 9, 2004
Well, the end of the weekend was good. We got things cleaned up and headed out; Sasha and Mike back to Ottawa, Becky and Andy back to Guelph, and me down to Toronto to visit another friend that I haven’t been able to see since I got back. Forgetting (once again) about the short northward section I was supposed to take, I missed the best route south-east. When I found the next best, I got stuck in a long line of cars behind a tractor pulling some cargo…doing 30-40km…in an 80 zone. It was incredibly frustrating. Bit by bit, when the lines allowed, and no traffic was coming the other way, a few cars at a time got around the slow beast. I finally made it too, and continued on my merry way. Since I hadn’t taken the best route, inevitably there would be other issues; I had to take some dirt sideroads to get back on track if I wanted to stay to the north as long as possible, and avoid all the traffic east of Toronto. It actually worked out quite well, and I even managed to fill up with gas for less than any other station I had seen.

I got back to the 404, and headed south, hearing from Lesli just in time to find out that I should stay on the 404 / DVP rather than take the 401 across the top of Toronto as I had been planning (I’d never driven to her place, much less from this direction). I continued merrily on my way until a very odd bump got my attention. My suspicions were confirmed as my brakes were suddenly not so strong, and the Justy was streaming sparks; my right rear tire…excuse me: wheel, was gone. Surprisingly, I didn’t really panic (as I realized reflecting on it later while talking to my dad)…I think I even put on my turn signal to get from the middle lane over to the shoulder. People don’t complain too much about letting you in front of them when sparks are flying from your car. I’m not sure exactly how far I went that way; no further than I needed to without attempting to do something stupid like slam on the brakes. Once I got out of the car (I’d, quite by chance, left just enough space to get out the passenger side, which worked out well since the DVP has a shoulder about wide enough for the Justy and not much more) I called Lesli first. I was shaken up, but okay. I told Lesli what had happened, found the phone number for the CAA, and ended my call to call them. It took them a while to get through all the info, since I am (quite logically) no longer on my dad’s CAA membership, and I imagine had I locked my keys in the car they would have enforced that, but they got permission to let this situation be included on my dad’s membership, although all they would do free was get the car hooked up and tow me 5km. I called my dad to let him know what was up, and he got on his way. A call to Lesli explained that I didn’t think we’d be getting together and she told me where she thought the nearest Canadian Tire was. The CAA had told me that my call was priority, and that a truck would be there within 50 minutes. Fun. While I was on the phone with them, one car had stopped, but I told him that there was nothing that he could do, and that I was on the phone with the CAA (also while I’d been on the phone with the CAA, a CAA truck had passed, which was a little frustrating, but what could I do).

Since I figured I had the time, I started walking back along the highway (on the other side of the
guardrail) to see if I could see the wheel. I crested a hill, but couldn’t see it, or see anywhere where people were swerving out of the way of something in the road, so I headed back to the car. As I got close, I saw that another car had stopped ahead of mine. Worried for my purse and computer in the front seat (even though the car was locked) I started running back. The car in front pulled away, to reveal that yet another was stopped and someone else was out and was almost at the Justy. I put on the speed, and arrived at the same time as him. I told him that a tow truck was on the way, and thanked him for stopping. I decided that I’d stay at the car, and hoped that the wheel had made its way off the road, and wasn’t going to cause more damage to more cars (or worse; people).

The truck showed up within 25 minutes, and the driver, seeing the damage, called the police to come park behind him, since it was starting to get dark, and he would have to work behind the Justy (and beside it; meaning just into the right lane of a busy 3-lane highway) and it simply wasn’t safe. He got to work right away anyway, and did what he could without endangering himself too much. I asked what was missing besides the wheel…and a lot of stuff apparently was. I suggested that maybe it was time to retire the car, and, gauging his reaction, went on to suggest that maybe it was time to set fire to the car, which he seemed to think was the better option. At one point, a fourth car stopped ahead of us, which I found particularly odd since I felt totally safe with a CAA truck clearly there to help me. I walked up as a lady got out of the car, and came up to meet me. The tow truck driver came too (which made me feel more at ease) when he asked if the lady was my mother, and I told him that it wasn’t (I’d already told him that my dad was on the way). She was a small woman, wearing an “I (heart) (Star of David)” pin. She asked me if I had a CAA membership, and I told her that I did have the basic one. She knew that that would only get my 5km though, so she thrust $40 into my hand. I was fairly unstressed at this point, but that broke me. I tried to give it back, but she insisted. She told me that she was a “Christian; a Jew, but a Christian” and suggested I think about my relationship with God. I’ll avoid any religious talk here (as I generally prefer to do) but the thing that this most proved to me had nothing to do with religion; people are good. And if you do something good for someone, they will do something good for someone else. I haven’t seen Pay It Forward, but it’s a concept that I have believed in as I much as possible, and it always feels good when a theory like that gets a little more support.

It wasn’t much longer before my dad arrived, followed closely by another tow truck, and a police car. Alice (the lady) stuck around though, in case she could help. My tow truck driver was very relieved to see “Bob,” a colleague of his, arrive, since he seemed a little unsure about how to get the back of the Justy up on a dolly with only one back wheel (since with the traffic on the highway, there was simply no way he was going to get the car hooked up from behind). Bob (as my driver praised) had been “on the job 20 years” and clearly knew what he was doing. They got everything hooked up, then Bob called “Doug” (sidebar; I had to really suppress a reaction…I thought perhaps I’d misheard) over to make sure he knew where to go, just off the exit, where there would be room to take everything down again, and hook the car up from the back to more safely tow it the rest of the way. Alice left me her phone number, and headed on her way, and I got in my dad’s car, as us, and the two tow trucks headed on our way, with the police car pulling into the slow lane, lights flashing, so that we could get on until the exit (maybe a hundred or two hundred metres away). Once we were off, the police car continued, lights flashing, down the highway.

As Bob and Doug (no, I’m not kidding) unhooked the already falling-apart set-up, and got the truck on the other side, I emptied the car, bit by bit. We discussed where the car should be taken to be fixed, and I asked if by fixed they meant dropping a match in the middle of it (which Bob found pretty funny). After some discussion (not the least of which noted that it wasn’t just the wheel itself that was gone, but just about everything once attached to it) it was decided to let the CAA take the car to a scrap yard. And so came the end of the life of the Justy. A member of the Force family from beginning to end. Finally handed over to the CAA, who would take it to a scrap yard and get a few bucks for the remaining useful parts (of which I imagine there are very very few). I took a picture of the car, hoisted up, missing wheel and all, but wish I had a picture of Bob and Doug. Doug was short, with brown hair, and a little unsure of himself; clearly seeing Bob as a mentor. Bob was tall, normalish build for a tall guy, bald, with a longish beard on just his chin. He had the capacity to be intimidating, but was nothing of the sort. Really nice, clearly knowledgeable, and just one of those people that is exactly what you want in a tow truck driver (or in a lot of professions for that matter).

One notable frustration is that my wondering as to whether the Justy could make another round trip to KW, and to Ottawa and Montreal has been answered…and the answer is a clear no. On the bright side, while my dad was apparently planning to scrap the car once I headed back to France I know that he, like me, wouldn’t have been happy to get rid of the car knowing that it might have some usefulness left in it. Now that is really not a concern. I wasn’t hurt, I wasn’t on the 401 or on some tiny highway in the middle of nowhere, as I had been for a couple of hours, just minutes earlier. There was enough space in the right lane for me to get over without causing too many problems for other people, and I’m pretty sure the wheel escaped to freedom, without hurting anyone else.

So to Alice for not only stopping, but going well beyond kind in giving me more than enough money to cover the tow, to Bob and Doug for being so helpful and putting me so at ease, and to the Justy, that has served us well for so long, and died about as peacefully as one could hope, given the circumstances; thanks. The drive home only reminded me how lucky I was, as we passed an accident on the other side of the highway to which several police cars and tow trucks were attending, and to which another police car and (more unfortunately) an ambulance we saw later may have been heading. Yep; it could have been a lot worse.

Chapter 81 – Chalet Force

August 5, 2004
One of the things that I miss most in France is always my grandparents’ cottage. Unfortunately, I always seem to miss it even when I’m in Canada, since I’m usually working like crazy, or trying to just catch up with people. This time I have more free time than I know what to do with (although since everybody works, I’m still missing a lot of people that I would like to see) but I knew I had to make time for the cottage. It worked out well since my sisters and I had planned on having a sisters day at some point (last summer it simply never happened) and since they both wanted to get up to the cottage, so it was quickly decided. Permission from the grandparents and the weekend was planned…a good month before I even left France. We had dibbs on the weekend after the long weekend (with a wedding to go to the long weekend; my first weekend back without jet lag) it worked out well for me. I made arrangements to see a few friends following the long weekend, but decided to take any opportunity to avoid traffic and leave Thursday instead of Friday. As it turns out, there are just too many cars in the Toronto area. It’s an observation I made my first day back (while cruising around Oakville at 5:00am having been up for a couple of hours already since my body was still convinced I was 6 hours farther ahead); even the 2-car family is a thing of the past…there are just too many cars around. I still can’t figure out how 14-lane highways can be so packed at 1:00 on a Thursday afternoon. Don’t these people work???

Anyway, after a couple of traffic jams in Toronto, I made it out in one piece and was off along the quieter highways, through small towns now and then, but mostly a lot of nothing. There’s something soothing about that…or perhaps because I just know what’s at the end of the route. Arriving at the cottage one of the first thing I noticed was the distinctive smell that is the cottage. It’s neither bad nor good, nor can I describe it, but it’s the smell of the cottage. I brought in my stuff, opened the curtains, and went out front to stare at the lake a bit. It’s a bit chilly this weekend, so I wasn’t planning on being out long. Just as I was going to head back in, I saw the neighbours two cottages down. Now, my grandparents built this cottage in the late 50s, as did 3 other families, on an island (with a causeway so it’s not actually isolated from land). 2 other families came later…or at least I think so; in any case, it’s the 4 cottages in the middle that have known each other forever, have never changed hands, and have a fantastic labour day weekend canoe race and pot luck which I will, of course, miss yet again this year, but oh well.

Anyway, Mr. Grant (from two doors down) was also outside, so I went over to say hello, only to be greeted halfway there by Lisa (Mr. Grant’s daughter…a lawyer who once helped me write up a legal complaint against Mr. Farmer, the next door neighbour and brother in law of Mrs Grant, for not paying me the dollar he promised if I answered a question he asked – he had never said that I had to answer it right; oh I was a legal eagle)’s two dogs; Riley and Fintree (no idea how to spell that). Lisa wasn’t around; apparently she’s actually on my adopted side of the ocean actually, but I chatted for a bit with Mr. and Mrs. Grant. Upon getting back to the cottage to curl up with a hot chocolate and a book, the phone rang. I figured it was one of my sisters letting me know when they’d be arriving, but it was Mrs. Grant inviting me over for dinner. Cool. I love people.

August 6, 2004
There are few things that invade every sense, but those that do exist for me so often have to do with my cottage. I just lit a fire (in the fireplace, G&G, you can relax!) and everything…the smell of the sulphur lighting the match first, but once the fire is really going, everything; the distinctive crackling sounds, the feel of the heat on your face, the smell of the fire itself, the look of the ever-changing flames. I think I’ve always been intrigued by fire, but it brings me such a sense of relaxing, since I think that it will be forever linked with the cottage. Now, I do realize that I’ve only mentioned 4 senses, and I could try to get all literary somehow including taste, but that won’t come until my sisters get here with the marshmallows. Something that will forever be linked with the cottage fireplace, and oddly, one of those things that exists in France, but is different. Yep, marshmallows over there taste different…although a week or two before I headed back here I was very amused to see packages of “American marshmallows” at one of the grocery stores that I frequent, and they did, indeed, smell the way marshmallows “should” (at least in my humble North American opinion). This leads me back to North American / Canadian vs European / French lifestyles. Reflecting more on my rant a few chapters ago, I realize that many of the things that I have come to prefer over there are things that I thought were pretty strange, and perhaps not as good as their “new world” counterparts. I guess if you spend enough time anywhere some things will start to make sense. Now if only I could strike the perfect balance between the lifestyles…oh wait; I think that that balance exists in cottage country (that is, minus the mansions that people call “cottages” but are nothing but over-sized second houses in an increasingly over-populated “rural” areas…but that’s another rant for another time). Going to the cottage (or to camp if that’s your term of choice) is, for many, an escape from the pressures (and ideally some of the conveniences) of modern life. Okay, so by having my computer here I’ve broken one of those rules, but I’m at a point where I write better in front of the computer than on paper. It’s easier to get my thoughts out, which is, after all, what these chapters are all about. But the calmness of the lake flowing by, the soothing sights and sounds of the fireplace, the solitude and feeling of home are inescapable, and really something of a return to a past; something that people on both sides of the ocean can relate to. I think I need to get out of the city (whatever city I happen to be in) more. I’ve talked about going camping, or hiking, or just walking in the mountains a short hop from Mulhouse…it’s well past time I start doing that. If only Grandma and Grandpa’s cottage was there…

August 7, 2004
My sisters and I just got back from what we’ve called The Sugar Shack for years. It’s actually called Wintergreens, and is, well, a sugar shack. They started out opening only when the sap is flowing, providing tours of the sugar bush, pancake breakfasts, and maple products. They are now open year round (although only on weekends, and depending on the season, sometimes only one weekend in a month) and making a variety of natural products that is nothing short of incredible. From touristy to 4L containers of maple syrup, to every other form of maple product, to syrups, BBQ sauces and vinaigrettes of all types. And they are Canadian to an extent that I can’t help but talk about. As Sasha and I put our $100.15 worth of products on the counter, and noticed that there was no visa machine, the lady said it was no big deal; they take cheques, and we could just mail the payment later. Now if that isn’t the most trusting thing I’ve ever heard. And I’m willing to bet that the amount of money that doesn’t get sent in by people saying that they will is probably somewhere around zero. Trust inspires honesty just as much as vice versa. I love it. This place also has “socials” (raspberry socials, blueberry socials, peach socials…). Cool.

Chapter 80 – I AM getting Frencher and Frencher

July 24, 2004
A (French) friend told me recently (I forget what I had done to incite the remark) that I was “getting Frencher and Frencher.” I’m not sure that that’s what I’m getting, but my frame of mind is definitely changing…a lot.

Let me set up this most recent realisation:
My body clearly hasn’t forgiven me for staying up “late” even though I gave in and went to bed at 8:30 last night (but 2:30am Mulhouse time). It got me up at 3:30 this morning. I read for an hour and a half or so, but sleep was not forthcoming, so I did what any normal person would do; the dishes. Already in doing the dishes it struck me just how many dishes and devices my dad has in the kitchen (not to mention all of mine which are in boxes waiting to be taken out and used again some day) that are downright unnecessary. I mean, by sheer necessity (and because I’m too cheap to buy in France what I know I have in Canada…even if I clearly can’t use it over there) I have re-learned (or, who’s kidding who; learned) to make cookies without an electric mixer. It takes longer (and you have to set the butter out to soften hours ahead) and it’s a workout sometimes…but so what? Since when does something like making cookies have to be a rush job? Especially for a single person with a job that allows for way too much free time. And the workout? It’s not as though my body gets worked to the bone doing anything else.

Ah the musings of a person with too much free time. I am now well back into get electric and electronic help to get things done on the rare occasions that I do get back to baking and such!

A walk through the house made me reflect more…all the stuff I have sitting in boxes I can clearly live without (have done for over a year and a half) although granted, the main issue is the if and when I move back to Canada. But even then…the electric mixer? Okay…if I were working in Canada I _would_ have a lot less free time, and probably less unused energy, but so much less that I couldn’t stand an extra few minutes to make cookies? There are plenty more such things, but as all normal 21st century people, I just can’t bear to part with all this stuff.

Before 6:00am rolled around, I needed something else to do, so I decided to go for a drive. It was then that I began to appreciate just how excessive “we” can be. Even I am becoming amazing by the amount of space we take up with our houses (fully reasonable given the amount of space we’ve always had to work with). But less reasonable is the amount of space our roads, driveways, and of course (a long-realised reflection of mine) our cars take up. When I hear about the uproar of gas prices, it sort of makes me smile (okay, so I’m evil and twisted) because it doesn’t seem to stop many people from buying SUVs and pickup trucks so they can have more space to transport more unnecessary stuff. Gas here today is at 79.9. In Mulhouse it’s around 1.20 euros (nearly $2.00Cdn). Not that they don’t complain about the prices too, but they simply drive smaller cars. Okay, so that’s not entirely fair; they tend to drive significantly shorter distances, and, quite frankly, parking an SUV in most areas of Mulhouse would be bordering on the impossible.

And yet, I have seen a couple of Hummers in Mulhouse is the past couple of years. Apparently that kind of stupidity crosses not just borders, but oceans too.

There are other limitations that have made the situation evolve very differently here and there (concentration of population and the subsequent ease of making cost effective public transportation), but I just can’t help but notice. I could not believe the number of cars I saw on my little tour de Oakville. Long gone is the single car family, and it seems that the two-car family is well on its way. It’s insane.

On the other hand, of course, I am the first to note some of the things that will keep me Canadian forever; we treat people, especially strangers, better than anyone. Everything from a casual hello on the street, to a _genuine_ smile and effort by someone who is in some way serving you (at the grocery store, at a restaurant…wherever), to more general cultural understanding and acceptance. While I’m much less pleasant to people on the street in Mulhouse, that’s is only out of necessity; I’d would love to respond to someone saying hello, but all too often it is followed up with “is there any way we can get to know each other,” as is “do you have the time / a cigarette / a lighter” in certain areas of Mulhouse. But, I digress. I guess the point is, I can change my behaviour to suit the place I’m in, but I can’t change my way of thinking (that’s changing all on its own), and it’s strange to see the difference in my own perspectives. When I first (only maybe two weeks ago) made cookies, I complained about not having an electric mixer, and yet after making the cookies (and then 3 more batches over the following week; turns out peanut butter isn’t as disgusting as many French people think, at least once it’s baked into cookies) I realized how much I don’t need such a thing. But the real question is…will I do anything about it, or is this all hot air?

ps. (a couple of weeks later): Having tried to make my dad’s pancakes without a mixer, I’ve rediscovered its importance!

Chapter 79 – Hurry up and wait

July 23, 2004
For once I didn’t do a whole lot of hurrying up “just to be safe” and it worked. The 6:51 train got me to Strasbourg before 8:00 for my 8:30 bus, which got me to Frankfurt around 11:30. With all the stops throughout the airport, I got into the line at my gate more or less exactly when it was supposed to start boarding. It’s now 20 minutes later, and the first time I’ve been able to sit down in well over an hour: Timing has been more or less just right. After waiting in the check-in line I got / had (depending on your point of view) to use the automatic check-in. After a couple of tries (and help from another passenger), I got my luggage ticket printed, and was off to the “Quick Drop.” The name was moderately deceiving, but not too bad. They x-rayed my checked luggage then I grabbed it again, and had it weighed as they checked my boarding pass (which ended up being the ticket I’d stuck into the check-in kiosk with more info printed on it), and I was off to my terminal. A pain at first, but once passengers get used to it, I think it’s a much more efficient (and safe with luggage being x-rayed in front you) system.

The line for the security check was worryingly long (at least for the speed we were going, and for the fact that they made no accommodations for people whose flights were leaving sooner than others’) but I didn’t set off any alarms (it doesn’t take long to learn what clothing not to wear just to save the need for further checks). Next was the passport check for my terminal, for which there was a short line for EU nationals, but none for us non-Europeans. The guy barely looked at my passport. I couldn’t help but be irritated by the fact that I guess I just don’t have one of those faces / names / citizenships that sends up red flags. Good for me, but bad for society in general.

I finally found my gate (after a little hurrying since, in theory, boarding was starting, only to stand in another good-sized line just to get into the lounge for my gate. We moved relatively slowly, since the passport checks at this stage were pretty (and reasonably) thorough. However I, unlike some people in the line, wasn’t too worried since I knew the plane wouldn’t be leaving while there was a line-up of people right in front of it, checked in, and ready to board. So very little hurrying, but the waiting has set in: boarding was supposed to start now half an hour ago (at 12:25) but we shall see.

1:25pm
We were supposed to be taking off now, but we’re only about half boarded. When I checked in there weren’t a whole lot of seats left, but I was lucky to find a centre-aisle seat with an empty one beside it (it was cool selecting it myself at the automatic kiosk). Here’s to hoping it stays empty…I could use a nap (it was quite warm, unbearably so actually, last night, so sleep escaped me most of the night, and the alarm clock was a rude awakening shortly after I did manage to fall asleep.

1:30pm
Apparently we’re waiting for people lined up at security. I had made a comment to another passenger, while waiting in that line, that it was silly that people with flights leaving sooner didn’t get any kind of priority, and they’ve just gone and proven why. Good thing my dad already anticipated arriving an hour after I’m supposed to land. Let’s hope the waits at customs are short, so he doesn’t have to wait even more!

1:45pm
“Boarding is complete.”

7:40pm
Well I managed to get an hour or so of sleep, but the flight is particularly boring since my headset doesn’t work, so I can’t watch the movies, one of which (Starsky & Hutch) I kinda wanted to see anyway (although I’ve since heard I didn’t miss much). I’ve done a fair bit of reading, and even pulled out my computer to work for a bit, but it gets old so fast. On the bright side, the seat next to me never did fill, so I was able to actually lie down (albeit in a ball) when I did sleep, and I have more than enough room to stretch my now very sore legs. Ahhhh the advantages of being short. Just another 2 1/2 hours (hopefully no more) to get through before a hopefully quick trip though the airport and home (in rush hour unfortunately).

9:50pm
Landing in about 20 minutes! I guess it’s time to change my watch an accept that it’s actually 3:50pm, and that I’ve been up since 11:30 last night, rather than 5:30 this morning, as my body seems to believe. Man is it going to be angry when it realizes that I plan to stay awake until at least 10:00pm Toronto time (4:00am Mulhouse time) after only a couple of hours of sleep in the last day and a half!

Chapter 78 – Breaking the bank (Part 2)

Another week went by, and I was getting very very irritated. Another trip to the bank, without an appointment, and no new answers. A call to the person in charge found that the money was in the process somewhere, but that not only did they need permission from the other bank to get the money back, the other bank also had to contact my landlord to get permission to remove it again. I told him that I knew that that would not be a problem, since my landlord was aware of the situation, so I knew he would give the go ahead as soon as the bank called. He also pointed out that while they say that it takes a week, a few days could get lost here and there since there were so many steps to go through (me to the branch, the branch to the regional office or the head office or something, to the office of the other bank, to the branch of the other bank, to my landlord, back to his branch, their office, CL’s office, my branch, my account). Ahhhh bureaucracy.

I also took the opportunity to bring up other problems; I wanted to know why I was paying for internet, when nobody else I knew was, including a friend who banks with Crédit Lyonnais. Upon looking, he told me that I wanted the “non-subscriber” service, and that the service I had gave me access to the stock market and stuff. I told him I had never wanted that, and had never been told that a free service existed (even when I asked). He cancelled the service, but I was pretty irritated at having paid for it all these months. I told him that I felt I should be refunded, to which he said that nothing could be done; I had signed up for this paid service. Fine. I’m an idiot for not having read the fine print, so I let that go, although I did notice that since he said to see how much I’d paid over time, there may be some room to move him on that one. I accepted another dead-fish handshake and was off. I should mention that what’s particularly strange about a French guy not having a good handshake is that just as guys give girls (and girls give girls) kisses on the cheek _every_ day that they see each other, only good guy friends exchange bisous; otherwise, it ALWAYS a handshake. I don’t understand how you can shake so many hands in your life and not learn to do it right.

Anyway, by now my electricity bill had gone through, and I was in overdraft. I didn’t want to put myself in any deeper, but I needed a new phone card, so my next stop that day was to get one. Unfortunately, my card, all of a sudden didn’t work. I was fuming. I decided that since I would be going back to the bank anyway, I might as well go home first and get my bills to show how much I’d paid in unnecessary fees since I’d signed up for a service that I didn’t want. The heat outside didn’t help my level of rage (or rather did, since I have such a hard time being angry directly at the person I should be angry with). By the time I got to the bank, I was ready to explode…unfortunately that generally causes me to cry, rather than to yell, so when I did get into my bankers office, I was using a lot of energy suppressing tears. He said that there was nothing to be done about the fees I had paid, which had been different every month, since apparently not only was a paying a monthly fee, but I was also paying every time I actually signed in online. As for my card, I had to go back to reception, where they could check that both the microchip (all cards over there are microchipped) and the card itself were functioning; they were. They said it might have been a problem with the store’s machine.

I had given up on going to the bank. When nearly a week later I still didn’t have the money, I just didn’t see what else to do. I had plans to change banks, but that in itself was going to be a pain, since I would have to open my new account, get the university transferring my pay over there, wait a month to make sure it actually worked, and those close the CL account (which would cost me 25 euros, according to what they told me). Yep; they charge you for closing accounts, and all French banks do. I figured I’d better keep that threat to myself until I had my money back though.

Charging to close an account has since become illegal in France. Score one for the French goverment!

Last Tuesday night, though, I was having dinner at Michel’s, along with several other people that I had worked with at Sainte Marie. One such individual, Raymonde, told me that the trick was to stay there until the money was in the account, and to forget about actually closing accounts; it’s perfectly legal to just leave a few euros in the account, and let the bank close it months or years down the road when they don’t feel like dealing with it anymore. I let those thoughts sink in overnight.

Wednesday morning I was up relatively early, and since I didn’t have a ton of things to do, I decided to go into the bank. I also figured that morning was better, because it meant the added pressure they would have about wanting me to leave before noon so they could go for lunch (the bank, like most things there, closes for lunch). I got there around 10:00, and saw that my banker had a client with him. I told the receptionist (not the one I usually saw) who I needed to see, and she said that he was too busy, and that I would have to wait. I told her that I had been waiting 3 weeks, and that I didn’t plan on waiting anymore. A minute or two later, she asked if it was about the reimbursement, and told me that it was still being processed. She also said that once his client left he had a meeting with the “Directeur” (the branch manager), which I found very convenient, since he was next on my list if dead-fish wasn’t going to help. Sure enough, he stepped out of his office at one point to say that his hands were still tied. I confirmed which office was the director’s, and waited outside the door (I’d seen him go up to the second floor a few minutes earlier).

While I was waiting, another employee walked by and asked if I had a meeting, to which I replied “I do now.” She asked if they knew I was there, so I said “I think so, I think that’s probably why he hasn’t come back downstairs.” She seemed both amused and bewildered by my answers and the half smile on my face. When the director finally came back down the stairs (which were, conveniently for me, right next to his office door, so he couldn’t pretend I wasn’t there) I said “Monsieur le Directeur, my name is Heather Force; I am a client, and I have a big problem.” (In French of course) He told me I could speak English, to which I replied that I could speak French too, and followed him into his office (without an appointment! The gall!).

Unfortunately I was so angry, that once I sat down, I couldn’t withhold the tears. I can’t tell you how much that embarrassed me. I told him that this was what happened when I was angry, and as much as I would prefer to yell, this is what happened instead. I got myself together, and explained the problem (adding about wanting to be reimbursed for what I’d paid for internet access), adding that since I was already in overdraft because of the banks error, I didn’t even have to money to pay for the bus to get to the airport for my flight out 2 days later. Okay, so I could have tried my card again, but this seemed like a good argument.

He called in my banker to get the bank’s version of events (that they had called, and now it was just a waiting game) and asked for clarification about this payment for internet. Even he was surprised that it was pay-per-view in addition to per month. He asked if we could try getting in touch with the landlord to see if we could go back to just getting a cheque. I told him that was fine, but there was no answer. Next he called Crédit Mutuel (my landlord’s bank, where, apparently, he had formerly worked) and finally got to my landlord’s branch. Inevitably, my landlord’s banker was on holiday, but he managed to find out from the person taking over that the money had been sent from them 2 weeks earlier. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get in touch with their head office, so he tried the Crédit Lyonnais one where, of course, the guy was on congé (again). He again asked who was taking over for that person and dealt with them (my banker clearly hadn’t thought of such a complicated idea). From what I gathered from his end of the phone conversation, there was some form that my banker was supposed to fill out, and never had, so it seemed to me that the money was already back in CL’s coffers, but they didn’t have the right paperwork to put it where it belonged. When he got off the phone, I asked if that was correct, and he assured me that it wasn’t, but said that he would get the money in my account that day, and deal with the bureaucracy after. What a novel idea. He also got my banker on the case to make sure I was fully reimbursed for the internet issue.

At one point, though, he had been glancing through my statements to see the internet fees, and had noticed that I had been to Prague (since I had withdrawn money while there). At first I thought it was a challenge with regards to my claim of not having any money, but later realised that he just really likes the Czech Republic. In the end we chatted for over and hour about travels and culture and that sort of thing. My standoff with the bank not only ended peacefully, but quite pleasantly! Who knew.

My retrospect on it; I had thought that his offer to let me speak English was because he wasn’t sure I could handle it in French, but it turns out he probably would have enjoyed speaking English, since he lived for 2 years in London, and there aren’t a million opportunities to speak English in Mulhouse (unless you live with a Scot, for example). I’m also happy that he fixed all my problems because not only do I now know who to go to if something is wrong, but also because my banker knows who I will go to if something is wrong, which will hopefully eliminate my need to do so. I’m sure I’ve missed several amusing details (like that he has almost as much disdain towards the bureaucracy in the bank, and in the country, as I do) but I think this has been long enough.