I couldn't find my checkbook to write a check for my dog's lab work (she has a defective thyroid) and since I couldn't pay by bank card my only option was to go and pay it in person, in cash.
I woke up it was 10 in the morning and the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was that the sky was a most unlovely shade of grey.
The weather here is merde. I would expect more sympathy since it's July and I live in what is supposedly an area of France that is supposed to have seasons, which the last time I checked included one with a much hotter average temperature and sun and is known as "summer", but according to friends in County Tyrone in Nothern Ireland, London, Amsterdam, and Barcelona I am merely suffering the same grey and rain along with everyone else.
I rarely get to just to flâner the day away, sadly, but I do find moments to take my seemingly pointless strolls even if it's just strolling in the direction of the next place I have to be. Today was a difficult day. I went for a little dig through some vintage clothing and then strolled down the boulevard Rochechouart towards Pigalle for the purpose of finding some sneakers, and then I strolled on towards the Castorama at Place de Clichy because it seemed a more efficient option than going to the Leroy Merlin at the Pompidou.
There I was paying for my chalkboard paint and all the other little odds and ends I needed to realise my chalkboard project for my Home Improvement Week, and the bank card gets declined. Not because there isn't plenty of money, but because BNP PARIBAS SUCKS. Three days ago they called offering all kinds of cards and advantages and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah - and now despite having the money I've just been humiliated at a hardware store during the mad rush hour when all the workers come to buy their supplies. MERCI FUCKING BEAUCOUP BNP PARIBAS.
I am forced to dig out everything I packed into bags and put it back on the counter. Once the money was withdrawn in cash and the purchases were paid for I decided to pay BNP Paribas a little visit.
Now there are ways to get things done in France and I'm going to explain to you one method. This method entails having on a nice outfit. If you know you look acceptable, then march right the hell into the place where you have decided to unleash your wrath, but it must be done in the "proper" way. Descartes was from France and we French have never forgotten it, so there is in theory, a proper way to do just about everything. Sometimes there are many proper ways to do the same task depending on the number of people you talk to, but don't get confused. The concept of there being a proper way to do everything is just the way it is for most French people.
So begin by being excessively polite. If the person tries to be more polite than you, don't let them. Apologise for not being polite enough. Here's an example:
Sales Associate: But Madame, I apologise for any inconvenience.
You: And I apologise to you Sir for having to come here and bring this to your attention.
Apologise for not being polite enough and self-depricate yourself in a way that suggest you think you're the problem, but not really.
You: It must be me. Maybe I didn't use my card properly. I've only been banking with you for six years.
When the person catches on to your sarcasm, then you unleash just un petit peu of your fury.
You: Wait a minute, I have been banking with you for six years, and how is it I have this problem?
Now raising your voice is a very, very serious thing to do in France. It means you want to draw attention to yourself and the situation you're in. Today the sales associate at BNP Paribas said to me after I unleashed just the tiny, tiniest bit of my fury, "Calmez-vous Madame", which is the last attempt in such a situation that the sales associate has to make you look ridiculous. If you allow the sales associate to make you look ridiculous (even if there is no one else around), you lose. If you manage to make the sales associate look either ridiculous, stupid, impolite, or like they're not fooling you one bit then you win.
I won. I don't always, but today I did. I got him to admit that my problem was something that at his level he couldn't do anything to help me about and I immediately apologised for forcing him to admit it. He then arranged an appointment with the bank's manager and I did the last step - I asked him to tell his manager that I came in with a problem and that the manager should be prepared to address my concerns at our appointment.
Why do you do this? For starters it means he has to mention it to his manager because if you mention it to his manager first that sales associate is going to have a problem and you want the manager to know because he'll be more inclined to give you what you want. In my case I want them to reconfigure my account to the way I want it. If the manager is a smart guy and wants to keep my business, he'll be willing to meet me at least halfway if I give him the head's up that I expect him to review my account and give me an answer the day we meet. Secondly it shows the sales associate you mean business so since that is "my bank" I'll likely see him in the future and when I'm polite and show no hint of what transpired, it is in the French mentality to show a lot of graciousness towards the person who was in the right but isn't going to point out a previous mistake.
I marched out of the bank feeling like a million euros, which of course even if I had at that moment I couldn't have withdrawn because BNP Paribas sucks.
From there I sort of lost my stride though. I took a bus when I could have walked 3 minutes to the Metro I needed to take and the clock was ticking. If I didn't make it to this place I had to take my dog's centrifuged blood sample by 5 o'clock it might be no good. I stayed on the bus when I could have gotten off at yet another stop, but finally on the third attempt I got off at Gare St. Lazare and took the Line 3 to Metro Temple.
I was shocked to see that the Marché du Temple, a long Parisian monument to the much rarer indoor markets was under massive construction. Just the iron skeleton of her beautiful Art Nouveau bones remained. The rest was picked clean. I snapped pictures of her poorly attended funeral. (Sorry, but this is my eulogy to a building I loved even when the only thing they sold in her market was horrible leather jackets that looked like they should have been worn by IRA goons in 1970.)
But what I do love about Paris, despite my many, many complaints is that just when something heartbreaking happens to her; she shows you she's got plenty of other charms on her Cartier bracelet. Today that was the place I had to go today. The whole point of it really.
In the Marais behind a door I can't even remember was a one of the greatest courtyards I have seen in Paris to date. Not in the best shape mind you, but wow none the less.
The clinic was on the second floor off the grand escalier. I walked up well-worn stone steps (that were rounded towards their centers) through real stone walls with archways and little hidden stairwells that spiraled up towards the roof after passing through a cobbled courtyard with a table and chairs and two rows of single story ateliers with metal facades and great windows that were painted white for privacy (or to save money on curtains).
The woman was so nice! She thanked me for coming all the way and had a beautiful smile. I told her I thought the building was beautiful and she told me,"yes because it's not young like the other buildings in this quarter". I snapped pictures on my way down of the best bits.
I didn't take any of the courtyard because someone came in and I felt like I might invade someone's privacy.
I decided as I pushed open the door back on to the street to pass by La Fougasse on rue du Bretagne because they have two things I love there: fougasse-inspired pizza bread and pain des morts, a bread from a region of Corsica that is a dark bread roll with nuts and raisins and as they say "tres apprecie des vivants" - much appreciated by the living. It's the only place I've ever found it in Paris and it's really delicious if you layer thin slices of jambon sec and tomato between two butter slathered pieces. This is exactly what I was thinking of when I strolled up the street.
But then out of the corner of my eye I saw a tiny little shop. Close inspection proved it to be an atelier des relieures, a bookmaking shop. I started writing down information when a nice lady opened the door and started telling me everything about what taking a course there was like - how I'd learn every aspect of the art (in France bookmaking is still considered a métier - a craft) and how she would guide me every step of the way so I would have a beautiful book I made with my own two hands.
After the catastrophic attempt to make River Song's Tardis notebook from Doctor Who that made me think momentarily of the Hindenberg - I'm really considering taking the class. Not only is the woman fantastic, but she has an infectious amount of enthusiasm. Plus I could make the Tardis notebook in leather. I have until September to decide because she's off for the holidays, so I promised I'd call her and she made me promise I'd stop by even just to watch and I wished her a bonnes vacances - good vacation.
I was back on the scent of La Fougasse and my beloved bread, but sadly it was closed for the summer. I was starving since I didn't eat a thing all day so I considered walking to Arts et Metier to have Chinese food (some of the best Northern Chinese cuisine restaurants in Paris are around here), but in the end I had a lamb kebab on rue de Rosiers that was so massive I couldn't finish it.
I stalled about heading home by going to a few vintage shops and a few kitchen shops.
La Chienne was pretty happy to see me and that helped. Plus the day wasn't boring. It could have been worse.
I woke up it was 10 in the morning and the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was that the sky was a most unlovely shade of grey.
The weather here is merde. I would expect more sympathy since it's July and I live in what is supposedly an area of France that is supposed to have seasons, which the last time I checked included one with a much hotter average temperature and sun and is known as "summer", but according to friends in County Tyrone in Nothern Ireland, London, Amsterdam, and Barcelona I am merely suffering the same grey and rain along with everyone else.
I rarely get to just to flâner the day away, sadly, but I do find moments to take my seemingly pointless strolls even if it's just strolling in the direction of the next place I have to be. Today was a difficult day. I went for a little dig through some vintage clothing and then strolled down the boulevard Rochechouart towards Pigalle for the purpose of finding some sneakers, and then I strolled on towards the Castorama at Place de Clichy because it seemed a more efficient option than going to the Leroy Merlin at the Pompidou.
There I was paying for my chalkboard paint and all the other little odds and ends I needed to realise my chalkboard project for my Home Improvement Week, and the bank card gets declined. Not because there isn't plenty of money, but because BNP PARIBAS SUCKS. Three days ago they called offering all kinds of cards and advantages and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah - and now despite having the money I've just been humiliated at a hardware store during the mad rush hour when all the workers come to buy their supplies. MERCI FUCKING BEAUCOUP BNP PARIBAS.
I am forced to dig out everything I packed into bags and put it back on the counter. Once the money was withdrawn in cash and the purchases were paid for I decided to pay BNP Paribas a little visit.
Now there are ways to get things done in France and I'm going to explain to you one method. This method entails having on a nice outfit. If you know you look acceptable, then march right the hell into the place where you have decided to unleash your wrath, but it must be done in the "proper" way. Descartes was from France and we French have never forgotten it, so there is in theory, a proper way to do just about everything. Sometimes there are many proper ways to do the same task depending on the number of people you talk to, but don't get confused. The concept of there being a proper way to do everything is just the way it is for most French people.
So begin by being excessively polite. If the person tries to be more polite than you, don't let them. Apologise for not being polite enough. Here's an example:
Sales Associate: But Madame, I apologise for any inconvenience.
You: And I apologise to you Sir for having to come here and bring this to your attention.
Apologise for not being polite enough and self-depricate yourself in a way that suggest you think you're the problem, but not really.
You: It must be me. Maybe I didn't use my card properly. I've only been banking with you for six years.
When the person catches on to your sarcasm, then you unleash just un petit peu of your fury.
You: Wait a minute, I have been banking with you for six years, and how is it I have this problem?
Now raising your voice is a very, very serious thing to do in France. It means you want to draw attention to yourself and the situation you're in. Today the sales associate at BNP Paribas said to me after I unleashed just the tiny, tiniest bit of my fury, "Calmez-vous Madame", which is the last attempt in such a situation that the sales associate has to make you look ridiculous. If you allow the sales associate to make you look ridiculous (even if there is no one else around), you lose. If you manage to make the sales associate look either ridiculous, stupid, impolite, or like they're not fooling you one bit then you win.
I won. I don't always, but today I did. I got him to admit that my problem was something that at his level he couldn't do anything to help me about and I immediately apologised for forcing him to admit it. He then arranged an appointment with the bank's manager and I did the last step - I asked him to tell his manager that I came in with a problem and that the manager should be prepared to address my concerns at our appointment.
Why do you do this? For starters it means he has to mention it to his manager because if you mention it to his manager first that sales associate is going to have a problem and you want the manager to know because he'll be more inclined to give you what you want. In my case I want them to reconfigure my account to the way I want it. If the manager is a smart guy and wants to keep my business, he'll be willing to meet me at least halfway if I give him the head's up that I expect him to review my account and give me an answer the day we meet. Secondly it shows the sales associate you mean business so since that is "my bank" I'll likely see him in the future and when I'm polite and show no hint of what transpired, it is in the French mentality to show a lot of graciousness towards the person who was in the right but isn't going to point out a previous mistake.
I marched out of the bank feeling like a million euros, which of course even if I had at that moment I couldn't have withdrawn because BNP Paribas sucks.
From there I sort of lost my stride though. I took a bus when I could have walked 3 minutes to the Metro I needed to take and the clock was ticking. If I didn't make it to this place I had to take my dog's centrifuged blood sample by 5 o'clock it might be no good. I stayed on the bus when I could have gotten off at yet another stop, but finally on the third attempt I got off at Gare St. Lazare and took the Line 3 to Metro Temple.
I was shocked to see that the Marché du Temple, a long Parisian monument to the much rarer indoor markets was under massive construction. Just the iron skeleton of her beautiful Art Nouveau bones remained. The rest was picked clean. I snapped pictures of her poorly attended funeral. (Sorry, but this is my eulogy to a building I loved even when the only thing they sold in her market was horrible leather jackets that looked like they should have been worn by IRA goons in 1970.)
But what I do love about Paris, despite my many, many complaints is that just when something heartbreaking happens to her; she shows you she's got plenty of other charms on her Cartier bracelet. Today that was the place I had to go today. The whole point of it really.
In the Marais behind a door I can't even remember was a one of the greatest courtyards I have seen in Paris to date. Not in the best shape mind you, but wow none the less.
The clinic was on the second floor off the grand escalier. I walked up well-worn stone steps (that were rounded towards their centers) through real stone walls with archways and little hidden stairwells that spiraled up towards the roof after passing through a cobbled courtyard with a table and chairs and two rows of single story ateliers with metal facades and great windows that were painted white for privacy (or to save money on curtains).
The woman was so nice! She thanked me for coming all the way and had a beautiful smile. I told her I thought the building was beautiful and she told me,"yes because it's not young like the other buildings in this quarter". I snapped pictures on my way down of the best bits.
I didn't take any of the courtyard because someone came in and I felt like I might invade someone's privacy.
I decided as I pushed open the door back on to the street to pass by La Fougasse on rue du Bretagne because they have two things I love there: fougasse-inspired pizza bread and pain des morts, a bread from a region of Corsica that is a dark bread roll with nuts and raisins and as they say "tres apprecie des vivants" - much appreciated by the living. It's the only place I've ever found it in Paris and it's really delicious if you layer thin slices of jambon sec and tomato between two butter slathered pieces. This is exactly what I was thinking of when I strolled up the street.
But then out of the corner of my eye I saw a tiny little shop. Close inspection proved it to be an atelier des relieures, a bookmaking shop. I started writing down information when a nice lady opened the door and started telling me everything about what taking a course there was like - how I'd learn every aspect of the art (in France bookmaking is still considered a métier - a craft) and how she would guide me every step of the way so I would have a beautiful book I made with my own two hands.
After the catastrophic attempt to make River Song's Tardis notebook from Doctor Who that made me think momentarily of the Hindenberg - I'm really considering taking the class. Not only is the woman fantastic, but she has an infectious amount of enthusiasm. Plus I could make the Tardis notebook in leather. I have until September to decide because she's off for the holidays, so I promised I'd call her and she made me promise I'd stop by even just to watch and I wished her a bonnes vacances - good vacation.
I was back on the scent of La Fougasse and my beloved bread, but sadly it was closed for the summer. I was starving since I didn't eat a thing all day so I considered walking to Arts et Metier to have Chinese food (some of the best Northern Chinese cuisine restaurants in Paris are around here), but in the end I had a lamb kebab on rue de Rosiers that was so massive I couldn't finish it.
I stalled about heading home by going to a few vintage shops and a few kitchen shops.
La Chienne was pretty happy to see me and that helped. Plus the day wasn't boring. It could have been worse.
