La Vie Niçoise

I hate having a cellphone.

Au Canada, c'était pas une problème, puisque il n'y avait personne qui m'a appelé. Mais ici, tout le monde est gueudin (dingue en verlan) pour les textos et tout... Souvent, enfin, très souvent, il m'arrive que quelqu'un a besoin de me contacter, et soit: a) j'ai laissé mon portable chez moi, ou b) je l'ai laissé en silencieux et c'était trop tard quand j'ai lu leur texto ou écouté à leur message. Puis ils s'enervent parce qu'ils pouvaient pas me joindre. Bon, si j'étais dans leur place je serais frustré aussi. Normale.

Alors, c'est quoi la solution? Dire à tout le monde de ne mettre pas confiance en la combinaison de moi + les textos? De mettre un message de "Désolé mais il y a un possibilité de 95% que je n'arriverai pas à écouter à la message que vous allez bientôt laisser jusqu'à demain" à mon répondeur? Ou pire: de porter un des porte-portables pour le mettre sur mon ceinture (ha comme si j'étais Mademoiselle haut-couture ...pardon à ceux qui aiment ces machins-la... mais j'ai la droit à mon propre opinion, non?). OK d'accord, c'est bien celui-ci: De développer l'habitude d'allumer mon portable après mes cours et mes services d'église. Bon. C'est parti. Une nouvelle résolution. (Mais entre-temps, faîtes toujours le truc de méconfiance en moi et textos, svp...)

It's a problem that we've been experiencing ever since the arrival of the internet, the cellphone, email... The more ways you are contact-able, the more attempts (by others) to contact you slip through. And when that happens and they can't contact you, you better have a damn good excuse. And forgetting to turn on your mobile device doesn't count.

I wish all our communication devices could have "Interpersonal Communication Level" (ICL) codes built in. Like an auto-response when you hit send from your cellphone.

For example:
Sally's really branched in, Level 1. No matter when it is, or where she is, you'll get a reply from here in like, 2 seconds. Angelica, on the other hand, she's Level 2. You'll probably get a response from here within the day, when she reaches into her pocket and finds her phone in her hand, she'll check it for messages. But actually getting through to her on a phone call... don't hold your breath.

Ring ring! "The correspondent you have dialed is ICL 2. Have a nice day!"
*beep!* Message envoyé. "ICL: 2. Bonne journée!"

That way, my very loose attachment to forms of communication isn't looked upon with disDAIIIIN. It's just given.

Bleh. This is the problem when you're too branched in. Maybe I should just go live in the woods for a while.

Got a package in the mail yesterday from my awesomely thoughtful cousin Abbie. I was like, hey, it's not my birthday, and this couldn't be a new year's gift or anything.

I open it up and find a card:

"Hey Angel, I was doing some "spring" cleaning in December and I found these never worn shirts of mine. I thought you might like them! If not, feel free to share w/ your friends =)"

And I pull out four really cool shirts from CrazyShirts.com (plus really yummy lipgloss).

How thoughtful is that, people!?

Abbie's generosity never ceases to amaze me. There are people out there in the world who close their fists tightly over whatever they own, perhaps in the hopes that "maybe some day I'll use it"... whereas there are people like my cousin! And my good friend from school Kahina.

What is generosity? Well, if it's an inconvenience (or what other people consider to be an inconvenience) for you to go out of your way to send something, to take the time out of your schedule, or to drop a bit of money, but you happily give without any expectation for returns... that's generosity. Add a pinch of thoughtfulness where the gift has meaning. And share what you have without a second thought - don't just snarf down your yummy sandwich when your friend sitting next to you has but a bottle of water.

Admittedly, I'm not as thoughtful or generous as I'd like to be, but this is part of my changement for the new year, for the rest of my life.

3 of the 4 shirts I received went to roommates who look absolutely fab in them. Getting something unexpectedly boosted everyone's spirits, too.

Random acts of kindness. Do 'em.

Just received my tickets!

Igor and John will be coming down from Prague too to watch the Canada vs. Germany hockey game. Tickets weren't available in Canada, but luckily I was able to score some in France.

John and I have been corresponding via e-mail to figure out how to rendez-vous in Turin and make the ticket pass off:

--

Alright Johnny, listen carefully, because I'll only say this once. After reading this message you must immediately eat it, or else it will self-destruct after 92 days.

At exactly 14h00 (that's 2pm), 16/02/2006 my comarade Kenzo and I will be waiting for you at these precise coordinates:

Located in the heart of downtown Turin, within the Piazza Solferino, stands a newly built, high-tech facility called "The Atrium". Atrium Torino consists of two pavillions where the city of Turin communicates its own evolution and the XX Olympic Winter Games of 2006, via high-tech 3D multimedia.

To narrow down our location, I've chosen a landmark found at one of the entrances to The Atrium. It's a fountain that was created in 1928 amidst controversy, due to contentions that it secretly represented the Pillars of Hercules and the Cave of Light, which hold mystical and alchemical meanings among the occult.

This curious fountain is composed of four groups of statues resting on a granite base. The two female groups, Spring and Summer, flank two nude, chisled male figures, Autumn and Winter. The men sit perched separately, each leaning on one arm, looking back at one another from several metres apart.

You will find us directly in front of the fountain, where looking between these two men to the other side of the fountain is possible.

The name of the fountain?

Fontana Angelica

That's all I will say, the rest is up to you...

Till then,
Angelica

--

Tee hee. Fontana Angelica. Better not forget the name of it, guys!

Yes, finally, Part III of my Journey Back. No more of these epic entries, they're tiring.

Now, this chapter isn't about the Louvre, not about the Champs Elysées, not even about the Eiffel Tower. What sticks in my mind from my short stopover in Paris is not a tourist attraction at all.

"We're going to see Brigitte..."

--

Saturday, 7:15AM

Paris, the city of lights! Rows of delicate trees lined the Champs Elysees, decorated in strings of christmas bulbs. I was finally there, in kuya Jo's car, hands and face pressed against the window, mouth agape, absorbing the passing scenery like a slobbering 5-year old (hey, one year older than the gift-receiving child in me).

Look! It's the Arch de Triomphe! It's so much BIGGER than I thought it'd be. Hey, what's that pointy thing? What's a concorde? Is that the Seine? Where are you driving?! How come there's no lines for lanes??

Kuya Jo and his wife insisted I stay another day to see the sights of Paris. The next morning, I got the whirlwind exterior tour of the Louvre and Jardin de Tuileries.

Tuileries, I later found out, did not refer to the way the chiffon on a 17th century ballgown twirled-eries around the hoity-toity royalty that used to frequent the palace which the Louvre now occupies... actually tuileries is a french word referring to the pseudo-factory of kilns that churned out clay tiles at that location back in the day.

That day, I visited the Eiffel Tower, Sacre Coeur, Chateau de Versailles and eyeballed the Seine from afar. But without having any historical background, the tourist places just plain aren't that interesting. Sorry. I'll do my research before the next trip up there, ok?

In a different way, the filipino's I lived and travelled with taught me all I needed to know. And it had nothing to do with tourist traps.

That day, I learned humility. I learned to step out of the typical middle-class lifestyle I've taken for granted for so many years. I mean, I've been lucky enough to have parents with good jobs, be raised in a loving family, be educated to the extent of my means, even travel to another country for the sake of learning a new language.

I didn't move to France because I was fleeing a corrupt government. And certainly not because I was escaping an oppressive lifestyle where the best way to provide for my children is to leave my babies with friends while I work illegally as a femme de menage on the other side of the world and send Euros back home twice a month, living my own life on a shoestring. Nope, I gotta say, not why I came to France.

You see, Paris is just like any other city. There's the side the tourists see, and there's the Real Deal.

--

"We're going to take a sight-seeing detour for a bit, OK? I need to drop off that off," Kuya Jo thumbed over his shoulder to a bulging gift bag next to me in the backseat.

"Okie dokie. Who's it for?" I asked.

"Brigitte."

"Brigitte?"

"Yeah, Brigitte. She's my baby," he chuckled, winking at his wife in the passenger seat who laughed along knowingly.

"You don't have a baby!" Kuya Jo had just been married last summer.

"You'll see..." he replied, grinning.

A few minutes later, he expertly manueuvered into a tiny parking spot in front of an inconspicuous-looking, classically narrow and blanched Parisian building, slotted between the seemingly endless wall of other stores and residences. We followed kuya through a swinging iron gate, crossed an open-air garden walled in on all four sides , then entered glass doors which still had Joyeuses Fetes and Pere Noel frosted onto the panes.

I still had no idea where we were.

Kuya walked up to an information desk to my left while I surveyed the warm, colourful foyer. On an armchair in the corner, a dark african woman sat perfectly still while a younger gal, behind her, pulled a needle and thread up through the woman's tresses, affixing her braids together.

Several small girls, who I assumed to be the african woman's children, played together on a rubber, blue-orange-yellow jigsawpuzzle floor mat. A fully-adorned christmas tree filled out the other corner of the room, giving it a cozy family feeling.

"We can go wait in the room over there," Kuya indicated for us to follow him through the door to the adjoining hall on the right.

We sat down at a table in what seemed to be an empty cafeteria. It was nice. Large windows looked out into the garden, and a spotless metal food service counter gleamed as if freshly scrubbed. An oversized fridge towered on one end of the room, and next to it a cook in a white puffy hat sat reading a newspaper.

I leaned my elbows on the table and listened to the conversation between Kuya, his wife, and the other older-yet-fiesty couple who we'd been travelling with that day.

Suddenly, I felt a presence to my right.

I turned my head and jumped a little in my seat.

A metre away, a group of six young black girls stared back at me with curious eyes. They stood close together in two perfect lines, the smaller ones in front, as if ready to take their Grade 1 class photo.

A tiny 2-year-old girl, clothed in a dark pink corderuoy jumper, face framed in beautiful chocolate-brown ringlets, wobbled in baby steps toward me with chubby hands outstretched. SO CUTE.

"Coucou!" I greeted her in my best cutesy baby-french, taking her hand, "Comment t'appelle tu?"

"MARIE," chorused the peanut gallery. Wow. Synchro. In Dolby Stereosound.

"Ah. Bonjour Marie. Quel age as-tu?" I asked, half-expecting her Von Trapp family to break out into the Do-Re-Mi song.

But our conversation was cut short with the arrival of another lady, and the cast of characters scampered away without even so much as a "So long, farewell, adieu, adieu, adieu."

Enfin, je saurais maintenant qui, en fait, est Brigitte? (Finally, would I find out who, in fact, was Brigitte?) And where the hell I am?

--

April 2005:
A talented 26-year-old female military aircraft pilot from Manila makes the trip to Paris to compete in an international competition of Modern Arnis, a filipino martial art. Her team makes a spectacular showing in the world-wide event.

However, shortly following the competition, our young pilot is seduced by a local french-arab man, and falls pregnant. Angry, he insists she gets an abortion, and forces her to the doctor. She agrees out of fear and makes the appointment.

The day of the rendez-vous, despite not knowing a word of french, she communicates to the doctor she won't go through with the procedure. Instead, she asks him to lie to the father when he comes to check. It is understood. She runs away to live with an older filipino couple and never sees the frenchman again.

On December 26, a baby girl is born. The filipino couple and their friends witness the birth and welcome the baby as though she is one of their own.

The french social security system being one of the best in the world, the woman checks into a single mothers housing. There, the majority of the women are from Africa and speak french. Only the receptionist speaks english. It is hard to make friends. No food is allowed in the bedrooms, except a bottle of breastmilk which is stored in large refrigerators in the cafeteria.

It's been 10 months since the pilot and her team competed. Did her team just leave her there in Paris and go back home? Heck no.

None of them returned to the Philippines.

---

And as the glowing new mother passed her baby Brigitte to kuya Jo and his wife, I couldn't help admiring her for her bravery.

"It was very painful," she described to me, referring to the childbirth, "even the days afterward."

And she smiled, then walked over to the receptionists desk to ask once more for a poussette.

Us and Brigitte
The cafeteria

--

After a 6 hour train ride from Paris to Nice, I hauled my two oversized luggages off the train with the help of my uncle who'd come to pick me up from the gare. He dropped me off at my place, and I struggled under the weight of 32kg + 23kg worth of bubble tea supplies and books, up the elevator and to my door.

*CRACK*

The suitcase finally gave up it's last breath and plonked down immovable, as one of the wheels splintered off.

Juuuuuust made it, I thought, dragging the suitcase into my room.

Tazo chai teabags are readily available at all Lower Mainland Starbucks locations. For only $9.95, plus the cost of milk, you too can enjoy a warm, spicy latte in the comfort of your own home, no matter where home may be.

I was thrilled to discover this fact during one of my fake-Vancouver-tourist outings to a Granville street Starbucks last December. (During my 4-month stay in Nice, I'd made an extensive city search, not unlike the one for tapioca pearls, for sachets of chai tea. But alas, no beans. Or leaves, for that matter.)

Examining the price, I hesitated. "There's still time. You can buy it later," my imaginary procrastination devil whispered into my ear.

"Remind me to buy some chai before I leave, ok?" I prodded my touring partner. "I can't find the stuff in France, and I told my friends I'd bring some back."

--
Friday, 07h55 (that's 7:55AM)

I trudge sleepily toward YVR's Gate 35, the morning after the The Great Confusion. I'm on 4 hours of sleep, but staying up was worth it; at 1am, I'd managed to contact kuya Jonathan, a church brother from the Nice congregation, who was spending his vacation with his recently-wed femme in Paris. He'd insisted he come pick me up from Charles de Gaulle, even though my plane would arrive at the devastatingly early hour of 6:25am. What a guy.

I've 25 minutes till my Montreal flight boards. Hungry and tired, I spot an overpriced airport foodery across from my gate and order a random breakfast pastry and grande chai latte. I love how I can use American Express for my $5 Starbucks breakfast. As I wait for my order, I wander to their display shelf filled with sachet Tazo tea gift sets. That'd be nice to bring back for someone as a souvenir, I muse, smiling, and turn around to check for my order.

Wait a sec... My face drops as I realise that procrastination devil had almost claimed another victim. I'd almost forgotten to buy my tea! Whew, at least I could say that missing my flight gave me a second chance at something. I turn around and search for a box of Tazo chai. Earl Grey, Darjeeling, and something called "Awake"... I grab a box and stride back to the counter.

"Do you guys have this in chai?" I inquire to the woman at the register- a small, yet very efficient asian lady who reminded me of the Alex Mackenzie cafeteria cashier (Helloo!)

"No, sorry, that's all we have," she responded, handing me my order.

Oh.

Of course, airport location. "Okay, thanks," I take my grande latte, force a smile, and walk away, disappointed.

It's just tea, I told myself, sitting down and sipping the last chai latte I'd have till September. I sigh, dejectedly. But it's just so good. Coffee doesn't even come close.

Now, at this point, the old, timid Angelica would simply look longingly at the Starbucks and sulk quietly at her lackedbrainedness before being whisked away across the Atlantic.

Yeah. Old Angelica's a loser.

I look at my watch, gulp the last of my latte, and stand up.

"Hi again. I have a kind of strange request to ask," I recite when I get to the counter, imitating Greg's guide to How to Get What You Want When It's Not For Sale.

The youngish brown-haired gal nodded agreably, "Uh huh?" Encouraging.

"See, I'm going back to France, where there's no starbucks ... no chai tea. And you guys don't have the chai tea sachets left... Do you think I'd be able to buy one of your boxes of chai concentrate back there?"

I look over her shoulder at the white 1-litre box they use to make in-store lattes, and brace myself for a "Sorry, it's not for sale."

"Yeah, well actually we do sell boxes of concentrate, I've seen them before. $6.95, I think." Really?

"But there aren't any left of the retail kind..." she turns to examine a white box behind her, but her manager, the efficient lady, is at her side in 2 seconds.

"We can't sell it to you. See?" She holds up a box and points at the label: "It says 'Not For Retail Sale'."

She moves away, as if to say, Conversation Over.

Dammit! And then, out of nowhere, tears start to appear in my eyes. How embarassing. I guess I just don't like failure. Having to spend $200 on a missed flight and acting on 4 hours of sleep don't help either. Greg's words echo in my head: "Give the impression that you aren't leaving without getting what you want."

I stand there stupidly, as if my feet were glued to the spot. "I'll pay twice as much!" I blurt in desperation. Good move, dummy. I don't think that was in the guide.

The manager cocks an eyebrow and looks me up and down. I feel ridiculous, but I stare right back. It works. She's on the phone, and after 2 calls and a thoughtful observation from one of the employees, she sends a starbucks dude on a quest to "Flagship" (whatever that is) to retrieve a box of Chai Tea concentrate, retail version.

"When's your flight?" she asks.

"8:45."

"Hey!" she calls after Starbucks guy who's striding quickly away. "Can you run? Yeah, like run?" I love this woman.

Before boarding, I quickly buy a card and chocolates, and hurridly write a thank-you. "Starbucks, Gate 35" the envelope reads, as I slide it and the bag of chocolate almonds to the guy, now back from flagship. He hands me my gold-coloured box of tea concentrate. Mm... precious chai gold.

That's commitment to the customers, people. "I love Canada", I think to myself, as I walk onto the plane, box of chai tucked safely away in my shoulder bag.

When bad stuff happens, there are always two ways to take it.

Former Angelica: “Damnit, I can’t believe I screwed up so bad! Now I’m going to dwell on my mistake and make myself feel worse.” (cf. pessimism)

Current Angelica: “That sucks, I sure learned my lesson. Though, who knows? Maybe that’s the way it was supposed to turn out this time… let’s see what happens.” (cf. fate, butterfly effect, faith in God)

Over the past four months I’ve learned to be less hard on myself, and put my faith in a force higher than me. Take my flight back to Nice, for example.

Flight plan: Leave Vancouver on an Air Canada flight at around 11pm on Thursday night, connect through Montreal Trudeau Airport then Paris Charles de Gaulle, to arrive finally at Nice.
Estimated total travel time: 11h 30min

Actual travel time: 4 days.

--
Thursday, 9:45pm

I stare blankly up at the YVR airport departures board, laden with a backpack, Grace Hopper shoulder tote, and push cart bogged down with two overstuffed suitcases.

“I shouldn’t have brought so much back”, I think to myself, recalling the difficulty I’d had packing 12 kilograms worth of bubble tea tapioca pearls, powders and accessories into my 2 baggage limit.

Nah. So worth it.

My mom pokes me. “Anak, check your ticket. What’s your flight number?”

“Umm…AC 884.” We both gaze upward at the ever-changing lightboard. Hmm… Montreal… Montreal…

“Well, there’s that one at 11:20. That must be it,” I point.

“I thought you said it was at 11:10? And the one up there is AC 343.”

“Maybe they changed it?” I wonder, gazing back down at my ticket. “Heh, it IS January 5th, today, right?” I ask her, half-jokingly.

We stand there for a couple moments, eyebrows furrowed, counting forwards in our heads from New Years.

“Yup.” Well then, what was going on? I scrutinize my green and white ticket, my gaze eventually resting upon the numbers 1110. Flight time. 1110. The wheels turn slowly in my head, like a hamster poked into a lazy jog. Oh no. I flip to my second ticket, and my heart skips a beat as I read the departure time for my connecting flight. 16h40. Oh my god. 24 hour time.

My flight had left at 11:10 that MORNING.

---

Thirty minutes later, I snap out of my shock and find myself standing at the Air Canada service counter, my mom waving new tickets in front of me. How’d I even get here?

“Hellooo… it’s okay. They charged us a flight change change fee, but you’re lucky. They said that normally those tickets would be worthless already. You’ve got a flight to Paris, tomorrow morning. But they can’t do anything about the leg down to Nice. You’ll have to find a way down there yourself.”

So, not only am I still stunned at my utter stupidity, but 10x more confused that my mom isn’t rubbing it in. How is it possible that she’s being so nice about this?

She continues, as if responding to my disdainful I-hate-myself-but-why-don’t-you? look, “This stuff happens, and I’m sure it’s God’s plan. That’s why I’m not worrying.”

Sure, mom. More preachy preachy. Eyes rolly rolly.