Still riding high from my folder triumph, I decided to tackle another pressing problem: my lousy eyesight. Over two years ago I was able to walk into an optician here, get my eyes tested and pick out a pair of glasses.
My eyes have gotten worse so a few months back I called the same optician to book an appointment. At first I thought she was telling me that I was now too old for her to look at my eyes. I eventually understood that my eyes were too bad to be properly examined there and I needed to call an ophtalmologue for an examination. Seems the first time I'd been given the French equivalent of a "get out of jail free" card - but not this time.
I got out the phone book and called a few doctors and they all said they'd be happy to see me - in eight to ten months. Apparently the doctors who accept insurance are always booked up many months in advance.
I don't think I can make it through another summer without prescription sunglasses, preferably varifocals so I can walk and drive and read road signs and maps without having to keep switching glasses. I thought of trying to wait until we go to England or the US where in any mall or city street Specsavers employees practically tackle you as you pass by to try and fit you with new glasses - but that's still two months away.
I drove to a bigger town to try to trick my way into being seen by an optician. What with the economic crisis hitting France I figured if the prospect of the sale of two pairs of glasses was right there on the doorstep, they'd probably bend the rules a little.
"Non, NON, Madame - c'est la loi!" It's the law. Coming from this optician who was about thirty it made me feel especially sleazy. It was different when the "authorities" - cops, bankers, doctors, etc all looked like grizzled veterans to me. I feel extra sheepish when slapped on the wrist by somebody a few decades younger.
But apparently there are back alley ophtalmologues around, who'll see anyone on short notice, without involving insurance. Which is fine since insurance doesn't cover eyeglasses anyway. The young optician discreetly handed me a slip of paper with a name and address and I went along in person and booked an appointment for Tuesday.
The hits just keep on coming.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Barely Legal
I scored a major triumph today - I managed to find hanging file folders that fit a rolling file cabinet a friend gave me.
Pretty sad, right? Other people are out solving crimes, curing diseases, creating beauty, while I search for office supplies.
I took this cabinet on good faith, "I could sure use something like that!" What with my seemingly unending IRS battle, the paperwork has been piling up all over the place.
Who knew that "legal size" is unheard of outside of the U.S.A.? And I thought I was something of an office supply and filing expert. How many ridiculous tests have I taken at temp agencies to prove my ability to put the letter D after C? Hell, I wrote a song called "File Clerk Blues" way back when! Sad to think I wouldn't even be qualified to do my first day job any more...
Because in all of the office supply stores in France, there is no "legal size". But before I could determine that, I had to learn what you call a hanging folder. Dossier suspendu! I love the French language.
After exhausting the French possibilities, I ended up on a UK website looking for the right size dossier suspendu or whatever they're called by the British. Again, no "legal size" - just a system of A4, A3 etc that confounds me. I kept running across this type of folder called "foolscap" and I imagined some character out of Dickens blowing dust off odd parchment folders made of the bone from a sheeps skull.
I finally did a search on the internet for the meaning of "foolscap" and whether "legal size" translates into any other kind of folder in any land. I would love the job, if there was one, of the person who reads the Google queries, those desperate pleas for some kind of understanding of the most basic elements of human life. I know from being able to see my website statistics that more than one person out there comes to my site by searching "how to have sex in the ass" - and that query's probably on the sophisticated side, in the grand scheme of Google quests.
It turned out that "foolscap" was supposedly the same size as the US legal size so I took the plunge and ordered.
The order arrived today and I was skeptical, but they are exactly the right size. Foolscap, dossier suspendu, suspended files. They are glorious! Now I can get back to doing what I do best: putting P after O...
Pretty sad, right? Other people are out solving crimes, curing diseases, creating beauty, while I search for office supplies.
I took this cabinet on good faith, "I could sure use something like that!" What with my seemingly unending IRS battle, the paperwork has been piling up all over the place.
Who knew that "legal size" is unheard of outside of the U.S.A.? And I thought I was something of an office supply and filing expert. How many ridiculous tests have I taken at temp agencies to prove my ability to put the letter D after C? Hell, I wrote a song called "File Clerk Blues" way back when! Sad to think I wouldn't even be qualified to do my first day job any more...
Because in all of the office supply stores in France, there is no "legal size". But before I could determine that, I had to learn what you call a hanging folder. Dossier suspendu! I love the French language.
After exhausting the French possibilities, I ended up on a UK website looking for the right size dossier suspendu or whatever they're called by the British. Again, no "legal size" - just a system of A4, A3 etc that confounds me. I kept running across this type of folder called "foolscap" and I imagined some character out of Dickens blowing dust off odd parchment folders made of the bone from a sheeps skull.
I finally did a search on the internet for the meaning of "foolscap" and whether "legal size" translates into any other kind of folder in any land. I would love the job, if there was one, of the person who reads the Google queries, those desperate pleas for some kind of understanding of the most basic elements of human life. I know from being able to see my website statistics that more than one person out there comes to my site by searching "how to have sex in the ass" - and that query's probably on the sophisticated side, in the grand scheme of Google quests.
It turned out that "foolscap" was supposedly the same size as the US legal size so I took the plunge and ordered.
The order arrived today and I was skeptical, but they are exactly the right size. Foolscap, dossier suspendu, suspended files. They are glorious! Now I can get back to doing what I do best: putting P after O...
Monday, May 4, 2009
Spanish Snaps
We're on our way
The Wonderful World of...Dune de Pyla
French Trailer Trash?
Biarritz
Espadrille
Guggenheim Bilbao 9 AM
Madrid Cafe
Thursday, April 30, 2009
My Pledge
I have one goal for the rest of this trip - to not set foot in another Carrefour!
I managed to mail a package from the post office in one on Tuesday - a guy had ordered our album and I'd been traveling around with his CD in my bag for over a week. I finally figured out the word for post in Spanish. The thing is, the guy lived in Madrid, and there I was in Madrid. Not a big deal, but the postal agent insisted that I put a return address on there. After much discussion (in French - I'm so used to being slightly moronic in my second language it is always easier to try to get to the Spanish word that way) we decided I could use my hotel address in Madrid. I was so thrilled with completing a transaction, it wasn't until I walked away that I thought "what is this guy going to think?" Unless he knows that we were playing in his town on the weekend, he's going to be scratching his head in disbelief, amazed that we actually personally travel to each town where someone has ordered a CD, check into a hotel and then find a post office to mail it - probably to save on postage.
On towards Valencia and on towards another Carrefour - we checked into a humble campground by the sea north of the town for a night in the ambulance. The website said they had a restaurant but it was "closed, today only, the shop too". A likely story. I was a little freaked out as in the dusk the place looked like a West Virginia trailer park. I saw caravans parked so close together, with all the lights out, and I asked Eric if they were maybe homes for people who picked oranges nearby, who had to go to bed very early in order to get up at dawn? He pointed out that they were just stored there.
With no shop and no restaurant, we asked the reception if there were any cafes nearby. They handed us a map, and circled the Carrefour.
This one was even more annoying than the one to the east of Madrid, which was worse than the one to the north of Madrid. But we got what we needed to have dinner and breakfast in the campground. Which was really charming in the morning light. As we'd traipsed through the dark to find the restrooms I'd whined "I don't like camping!" but in the end I enjoyed it - there was the sea, showers outdoors in the sunshine and the restaurant was open for lunch and pretty good.
I think I had a harder time sleeping in our luxury hotel last night in Valencia, after a difficult show where the sound was so challenging we never felt like we got things off the ground. And promoters who were so preoccupied they sent us off on our own for dinner after the show, pleading that they were "tired, and have to get up early the next morning to book some more concerts." I thought Spain was rock and roll party animals and cocaine all night?! It was only eleven PM! Who are the middle-aged ones around here?
I managed to mail a package from the post office in one on Tuesday - a guy had ordered our album and I'd been traveling around with his CD in my bag for over a week. I finally figured out the word for post in Spanish. The thing is, the guy lived in Madrid, and there I was in Madrid. Not a big deal, but the postal agent insisted that I put a return address on there. After much discussion (in French - I'm so used to being slightly moronic in my second language it is always easier to try to get to the Spanish word that way) we decided I could use my hotel address in Madrid. I was so thrilled with completing a transaction, it wasn't until I walked away that I thought "what is this guy going to think?" Unless he knows that we were playing in his town on the weekend, he's going to be scratching his head in disbelief, amazed that we actually personally travel to each town where someone has ordered a CD, check into a hotel and then find a post office to mail it - probably to save on postage.
On towards Valencia and on towards another Carrefour - we checked into a humble campground by the sea north of the town for a night in the ambulance. The website said they had a restaurant but it was "closed, today only, the shop too". A likely story. I was a little freaked out as in the dusk the place looked like a West Virginia trailer park. I saw caravans parked so close together, with all the lights out, and I asked Eric if they were maybe homes for people who picked oranges nearby, who had to go to bed very early in order to get up at dawn? He pointed out that they were just stored there.
With no shop and no restaurant, we asked the reception if there were any cafes nearby. They handed us a map, and circled the Carrefour.
This one was even more annoying than the one to the east of Madrid, which was worse than the one to the north of Madrid. But we got what we needed to have dinner and breakfast in the campground. Which was really charming in the morning light. As we'd traipsed through the dark to find the restrooms I'd whined "I don't like camping!" but in the end I enjoyed it - there was the sea, showers outdoors in the sunshine and the restaurant was open for lunch and pretty good.
I think I had a harder time sleeping in our luxury hotel last night in Valencia, after a difficult show where the sound was so challenging we never felt like we got things off the ground. And promoters who were so preoccupied they sent us off on our own for dinner after the show, pleading that they were "tired, and have to get up early the next morning to book some more concerts." I thought Spain was rock and roll party animals and cocaine all night?! It was only eleven PM! Who are the middle-aged ones around here?
Monday, April 27, 2009
What A Difference A Meal Makes
We found the Spanish equivalent of steak frites yesterday and suddenly Madrid is the most wonderful place on earth! The promoter is a true gentleman, the audience is one of the best in the world, the soundmen all look like Javier Bardem, the women are as beautiful and charming as Penelope Cruz (except for the security guard where we're keeping our van).
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Pincho'ed
There are these little snacks in parts of Spain, called pinxto (I think) or pincho. Tiny bites - that's what everyone seems to eat. You sample a bit of everything, but how do you know when you've actually had a meal's worth of food?
That's how I'm experiencing this country. Zaragoza, Bilbao and now Madrid, over the course of a few days. The shows have been good, if a little odd - a small theatre, a meeting room for Bilbao lawyers, seriously, and an outdoor park last night for the CulturaPop fest, which was going great but the power kept cutting out. At one point we wondered why everyone was waving their arms wildly and clapping above their heads - we hadn't realized we were no longer going through the P.A! The audience was trying to tell us but also trying to keep the party going...
In Bilbao some nasty thief did a little "pincho" on the van - stealing only the GPS and Eric's mobile phone. The fool left behind a power drill, a nice assortment of vintage towels and a whole load of menopause vitamins and herbal supplements, luckily.
So we stopped north of Madrid at a Carrefour, just like the Carrefours (sort of like WalMart) in France, only with a massive selection of hams and louder-colored lingerie, to get a new navigation system. There we saw possibly the whole of the city stocking up for the weekend. Not the best introduction to a place! Since then we've had the luxury of the same hotel for a few days but from what I can see it looks like we're in...Queens?
We're off to find the Prado now. And something (and something else...and something else...) to eat.
That's how I'm experiencing this country. Zaragoza, Bilbao and now Madrid, over the course of a few days. The shows have been good, if a little odd - a small theatre, a meeting room for Bilbao lawyers, seriously, and an outdoor park last night for the CulturaPop fest, which was going great but the power kept cutting out. At one point we wondered why everyone was waving their arms wildly and clapping above their heads - we hadn't realized we were no longer going through the P.A! The audience was trying to tell us but also trying to keep the party going...
In Bilbao some nasty thief did a little "pincho" on the van - stealing only the GPS and Eric's mobile phone. The fool left behind a power drill, a nice assortment of vintage towels and a whole load of menopause vitamins and herbal supplements, luckily.
So we stopped north of Madrid at a Carrefour, just like the Carrefours (sort of like WalMart) in France, only with a massive selection of hams and louder-colored lingerie, to get a new navigation system. There we saw possibly the whole of the city stocking up for the weekend. Not the best introduction to a place! Since then we've had the luxury of the same hotel for a few days but from what I can see it looks like we're in...Queens?
We're off to find the Prado now. And something (and something else...and something else...) to eat.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
So Close
We were almost the proud owners of a new strimmer yesterday.
Standing in line at the Castorama, smug in the knowledge that our career as "those pesky neighbors who are always borrowing the lawn equipment" was just about to end, we got a nasty shock when the cashier told us how much we owed for the strimmer we'd chosen. It was twice what we'd thought.
We dragged the box back over to the lawn section and asked one of the assistants. It turns out we'd been looking at the price of a coupe bordure, suitable for just that, cutting borders, and what we really needed was the debroussailler for clearing lawns. The cost was enough to require some soul searching.
Because we've also been badly needing a more reliable keyboard - the Roland JX-8P has become more and more of a vintage keyboard lately, that is, something to be cherished and cared for, rather than flung or even placed very carefully into the back of the van. It's been losing notes and occasionally not working at all on stage.
A local music shop had just what we were looking for. At slightly more than the cost of the strimmer. Guess which one won?
I mean, we won't actually be here to see the knee high grass and weeds. And, in a couple of weeks I can always get out the old scythe. There's something very therapeutic about swinging that thing around while thinking `bout the IRS.
Standing in line at the Castorama, smug in the knowledge that our career as "those pesky neighbors who are always borrowing the lawn equipment" was just about to end, we got a nasty shock when the cashier told us how much we owed for the strimmer we'd chosen. It was twice what we'd thought.
We dragged the box back over to the lawn section and asked one of the assistants. It turns out we'd been looking at the price of a coupe bordure, suitable for just that, cutting borders, and what we really needed was the debroussailler for clearing lawns. The cost was enough to require some soul searching.
Because we've also been badly needing a more reliable keyboard - the Roland JX-8P has become more and more of a vintage keyboard lately, that is, something to be cherished and cared for, rather than flung or even placed very carefully into the back of the van. It's been losing notes and occasionally not working at all on stage.
A local music shop had just what we were looking for. At slightly more than the cost of the strimmer. Guess which one won?
I mean, we won't actually be here to see the knee high grass and weeds. And, in a couple of weeks I can always get out the old scythe. There's something very therapeutic about swinging that thing around while thinking `bout the IRS.
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