BERSIH 2.0

Calling all my fellow Anak Malaysia...

Wherever you are, please find out if there is a Bersih gathering in your area, and show support to an important & fair cause, for the benefit of ourselves, our parents, and our children.

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Bersih-20-UK-Walk/111909382231134#!/pages/Bersih-20-Sister-Rallies-Worldwide/162151757184140?sk=wall

Antidote to typical weekends

After the post about my uninspiring weekends last week, I thought I'd go for a change in pace and show you some vaguely more interesting events in this week's post. 

Last month, we attended a picnic organised by the Malaysian Association of France at the Jardin du Luxembourg.  The Malaysians here are usually long-timers who have lived here for more than 20 years, but with strong roots to nasi lemak, punctuating sentences with lah's, and the multicultural muhibah (Malay for warmth and goodwill) spirit.  It was a chilly afternoon, but the committee did a good job of organising food, games and prizes for all. 

Sophie took part in a egghunt for young children, and  

ended up with third prize. 

Here she is, with the new Director of Tourism Malaysia in Paris, who presented the prizes.

And a couple of weeks ago, Popo went off to Bruges in Belgium with Sophie, without Ju & I (long story).  Yes, it is indeed a mini miracle.  She only agreed to go because she wanted to meet her childhood friend who happens to be living outside Paris who was also going on the same trip.  I stayed home to nurse Ju who was down with flu and a low-grade fever.  We had fun, too, albeit without chocolates and canal rides.... 

Popo, Aunty Mei Ying, and Sophie in Bruges, Belgium.

Last week, I dragged my whole household out of their safe, warm cocoons (sometimes known as the sofa) to go to Trocadero, just a 10 minute stroll from our apartment. 

This must be the coolest carousel in the whole wide world.

I think Popo had more fun than those two rascals.

It was also a reward to the kids after going for their vaccination the day before.  Sophie was very brave; volunteering to go first, to "show Didi how" to be vaccinated without crying.  She took one jab on each arm.  Blame it on the French and their paranoid vaccination requirements.

Ju was not fooled.  Despite witnessing his Che Che taking both jabs calmly without much fuss, he started to kick and scream and bawl the instant 3 pairs of eyes (Doctor's, Popo's, and mine) started to focus on him and even without a single stick of needle in open sight.

  I knew what they were up to right from the start. 

Typical Weekend

I think it has become somewhat of an in-joke between my colleagues that my response to the perennial question, "What are you doing this weekend?" is always "Grocery shopping".

It is true.  It is really all I do on weekends.  Forget all your romantic ideas about me strolling along the Seine, searching out the gems of Paris' shopping scene, rubbing shoulders with Michelin-starred chefs, digesting the architectural feast on every street in the Right Bank, bla bla bla.  What I do is much more prosaic; I pound the streets to 3 grocers to stock up on food for the week.  

Problem is, Popo is a true blue China(wo)man, and only eats Chinese.  Everything else is barbaric.  So I trudge to the nearest Asian grocer every Saturday to stock up on Chinese vegetables and other staples. 

Then I go to a regular supermarket to get the other necessities, e.g. milk, yoghurt, bread, etc.  Every other week, I also pay a visit to a large supermarket like Carrefour to get my hands on those yummy corn-fed chicken (at least that's what I guess they are, because they are called "yellow chicken" in French) and other luxuries found in the "World Cuisine" section (baked beans! peanut butter!).

I have also vowed to visit the weekly mobile fresh market (pasar pagi for Malaysians) to try to do what the French does.  My strategy is to go as early as possible so that the stall owners/farmers will have the patience to try to understand what this ignorant foreigner who is butchering their beautiful language wants. 

Chicken! Rabbit! Beef! Pork! Sausages! Every sort of meat and cut imaginable!

(But how the heck do I order them in French?)

When I first moved here, I used a backpack to lug all the booty home.  And why not?  That's what I did back in our London days when I traversed the Mudchute Farm every weekend to reach ASDA on the other side for our weekly groceries.  And I did it single-handedly while the Doctor stayed home to fill his hallowed brains with important medical facts (or surf the Internet for Top Gear episodes, that £*$&"!).  15kg on my back, 5kg on each hand.  No problem. 

As I quickly discovered, no respectable person should be seen with a decaying camping backpack on them while walking down the fashionable district that happened to be my neighbourhood.  So nowadays you'll find me strolling down the streets in polished, refined Parisian style with a shopping cart.  When in Rome Paris,....

My able assistant, Sophie. 

She works erratically depending on her mood, what's on TV, and whether she's desperate enough for her bread (see below).

There is one pleasant discovery amidst my humdrum days.  France is a land of bread, wine, and cheese.  I was never a fan of any of the three.  But I am beginning to look forward to my weekly jaunt to the boulangerie to get my brioche, chouquettes, pain au lait and whatever else that catches my fancy.  Sophie is also starting to associate Saturdays with the day that she gets her ficelle (a type of thin baguette).   

So, the day will come when you find me sashaying lightly down the street, baguette tucked under my arms, shopping cart trailing behind me, loaded with the best chicken cuts from the local fresh market and bak choy from the Asian grocer.   

Treats after a full day of grocery shopping

Savouring her ficelle from the boulangerie downstairs

Only in France - Part I

I often reply to questions about how I'm settling down in France with one adjective: different. 

It's not just the obvious things, like driving on a different side of the road (Bah! I survived 6 years in Canada!), kissing everyone on greeting (still akward for me but no problemo), and a different language (ok, on this one I concede defeat).

It is also in the not-so-obvious things, like how:

- they tell time using the 24 hour format (I feel like I am in a spy movie all the time: We rendez-vous at 1300 hours, d'accord?),

- schools are closed on Wednesdays (I really thought they were kidding when they told me, and it took 3 people to tell me the same thing before it finally dawned on me that it was true),

- I have to buy insurance to insure against people hurting themselves in my home (don't visit me if you consider yourself clumsy, please),

- I have to call the firemen, not the ambulance or police, in an emergency,

- and the number to dial is 18 (which have no resemblance to 999 or 911 or anything to do with 9 at all)

- I am not allowed to hang my laundry out to dry on my own balcony because my Parisian neighbours do not want that to mar the aesthetics of their grand buildings

- my payslip is not a slip, but a bl**dy A4-sized letter full of numbers that no one, even my HR colleagues, can decipher,

- I need an equally large piece of statement called the RIB (Relevé d'Identité Bancaire) issued by the bank, specifying 37 different codes and account numbers, to allow me to set up each routine bank transfer, 

- I need to buy my own vaccine from the local pharmacy for my children's routine vaccination,

- the vaccination schedule is totally different,

(French doctor: "You give the booster shot when you have 12 years (i.e. 12 years old)?? Tsk tsk tsk...zhat ees terrrible!  That is very ze outdated method..."),

- I have to pay EUR 9,000 a year to the government to subsidize internships in France,

- there is no quick lunch in France, even in my company canteen or Sophie's school menu; there is always an entree (appetizer), a plat (main dish), a dessert, and a coffee.  Here is the lunch menu on 10th May at Sophie's school:

                                                     Entree     Salade de Mache aux Pignons

                                                         Terrine aux 2 saumons - sauce tartare

                                           Plat         Paella

                                                          Tarte chevre tomate

                                           Legume   Salade Mixte

                                           Laitage    Tartare ail et fines herbes

                                                          Fromage blanc

                                           Dessert    Fruit de saison

                                                          Flan nappe caramel

The kids get ALL of the above; it is not a choice.  I am not kidding you. 

Sophie, being the fussy eater she is, is not enrolled in the lunch plan.  Either she will come home hungry everyday, or she will turn into a gourmet eater very soon, and it's not too ideal for us in either case.

- I need a lesson on how to write cheques, and guidebooks on living in France dedicate a whole section on this topic,

- my doormat is my mailbox,

(Old Parisian apartments like mine do not have resident mailboxes in the lobby downstairs.  Instead, the gardienne brings the mail to each apartment and leaves it under the doormat.  I sometimes come home to a bulging, pregnant doormat when I receive parcels) 

- you need the approval of your residents' committee to get anything done in or to your apartment, even if you own it. 

If you are renting, then forget it.  You are the lowest life-form as far as anyone in your building is concerned.  You should just languish at home, not touch anything, let your laundry dry over 5 days indoors away from the windows and the sight of your elegant neighbours (see above), run the cables of your satellite TV through the working chimney to avoid installing cables along your exterior wall, praise the Heavens that you have a roof over your head, and no matter that your window is cracked or your radiator is broken, or that your buzzer downstairs still bears the name of its 18th century inhabitants.





Getting our names on our buzzer downstairs is a mini battle that consumed 7 weeks, 8 emails, the approval of 9 people, and, as the Cantonese say, some amount of "vomitting of blood".  Now good luck to the next occupants in getting rid of it. :P

...to be continued...