My voting hall of shame

Voting is a topic often discussed by expats. Should residents (non-citizens) be able to vote in elections taking place in the countries they reside in? Should citizens living abroad be allowed to vote 'back home'? Should people who gain citzenship via Jus Sanguinis have the right to vote? There are no easy answers to these questions. 

The last time I voted was in the year 2000 back when I was still living in Canada. I had just turned 18 and was led into the voting booth by my father to vote in the general election. I had no idea what I was doing and didn't really have an solid understanding of Canadian politics. That was the first and last time I ever voted. 

I no longer have any voting rights in Canada. It is somewhat surprising that Canadians living abroad lose their right to vote after only 5 years out of Canada. So I lost my right to vote years ago. 

Montreal during winter. Author of photo: Den Nation.

In my case, I agree that I shouldn't have the right the vote. I am totally cut off from Canadian politics and I am barely further than where I was at 18 and voting for the first time. I have no idea what is going on there. Back in 2009 I noticed some of my Canadian friends were talking about a certain Stephen Harper on Facebook. This is shocking - I had no idea he was the prime minister of Canada and I had no idea that the Conservatives had taken the power from the Liberals. I started to think about it and I realised that it had been years that I had had no idea who the prime minister of my own country was. I couldn't believe it. 

Expats like me shouldn't be allowed to vote in elections 'back home'. I do think that maybe 5 years is too short a period, but in my case, it was all it took for my home country to fade to the background. On the other hand, there are many expats who are completely up-to-date with what is happening back in their 'home country'. I think they should be allowed to vote. The problem is, how can a country weed out the 'bad voters' like me from the 'good voters', the ones that should be voting because they are really involved with the situation 'back home' and/or probably will move back one day.

I could have voted in Canada's 2004 and 2006 elections. I didn't. I could have voted in countless local elections in the various European countries I've lived in. I haven't. I could have voted in the UK general election back in 2005 (all Commonwealth citizens legally residing in the UK have this right). I didn't. I could have voted in the Italian general elections. (Note: I actually tried to vote in the last one with the sole purpose of getting rid of Berlusconi but was unable to because the election took place right at the time I moved to Denmark.) I haven't. I could have voted in EU elections. I haven't. When my friend proposed going to the town hall to register for the next EU elections and local elections, I just waved her off. 

The Italian Alps. Author of photo: Den Nation.

A few weeks ago, I passed in front of the town hall and I thought, "Enough is enough, people have died for the right to vote and you just throw every chance you have to vote out the window." This is so true, why don't I care? I should. So I got my papers in order and went to the town hall and registered myself to vote.

My mantra has always been that if someone is not informed, than they should not be voting. People like me who have no idea really should not be voting. These are just excuses in my case, though. I have everything at my disposal to make an informed decision. I am a highly educated person who can easily access information over the internet, call embassies, talk to other people to learn more (including my friends and family back in Italy and Canada), read books, take an interest in politics, etc. After all, politics has an effect my everyday life. I should be interested. It doesn't take much work to change my status from 'not informed at all' to 'somewhat informed'.

So in a bid to get more informed, yesterday I went and looked on Wikipedia to learn more about the last elections I missed in Canada. And that's when I learned about the existance of Paul Martin, Canada's prime minister between 2004-2006. All this time, I thought that Stephen Harper had succeeded Jean Chrétien. What Canadian doesn't know this? I started watching interviews with Canadian prime ministers on YouTube. This is when I learned that Brian Mulroney (prime minister in the 80s and 90s) was actually québecquois. Say what? I had always thought that he epitomised anglophone Canadians. I never would have associated him with a québecquois (no negative undertones here). I was surprised to learn this. Actually, in this interview he says that most anglophone Canadians think he is anglophone and most French-Canadians think he is francophone. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=29qpZ7G4Yfo (at the 3:39 mark for those who are interested). I was so surprised when I saw this video http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A0YBdaCIQZo and heard him speak French. And I had no idea that he was a personal friend and political colleague of Lucien Bouchard. It's funny how in French his voice sounds deeper than his English voice. Now that I've watched the English video a second time, I'm starting to think that he sounds more like a native French speaker than a native English speaker, but it's really hard to say.  

Anyway, now it's high time to learn more about EU and Italian politics. I am priviledged to live here thanks to my Italian passport. I feel I should step up to the plate and do something in return. I owe Europe and Italy that much.

Thanks for reading my ramblings!

Happy New Year everyone! (and Blogging about Blogging)

So here I am again finally. Barely 2 hours into 2014 and I am writing here! That's a record considering I have not blogged in a few weeks.

I should be over at my sister-in-law's house celebrating with all the other 'young people'. Instead I am here at my in-laws place writing a blog post while the parents and Mémé get ready for bed. What am doing here and why am I writing?

I suddenly had a longing to write. Pure and simple. Who cares if nobody is reading and if everyone is out celebrating.

I just read Paris at my Feet's latest post: http://parisatmyfeet.blogspot.fr/2013/12/blogging-about-blogging.html

Her post, Blogging about Blogging, is exactly how I feel about blogging. I'm not in this to promote myself and I want this blog to be my place to write whenever I feel like it. Even if that means disappearing for a few weeks and coming back less than two hours into a new year. A few weeks ago a blogger I really liked suddenly stopped blogging, saying that the reason she was quitting blogging was because she felt she wasn't a good writer and that she felt too much pressure to blog. I've got to ask myself, why?

The answer is clear to me. Like Paris at my Feet said, there are more and more lifestyle blogs that read like advertisements and less 'assistants in France + years later' in France blogs. Like Paris at my Feet, I would love to be more personal in my writing, and goodness knows if any of my acquaintances ever found my blog they would know it was me, but for now if I want to keep sharing and keep this a semi-personal blog, I need to be semi-anonymous. I will never become a lifestyle blog. I want to be honest with myself and anybody who comes here wanting to know about life in France (or Paris for that matter).

I hope that other bloggers can find the inspiration to just be whatever they want to be and not follow social media pressure. Please just stop fighting the push towards having a 'perfect' blog and pleasing anyone and everyone that might just pass by your blog. Before I started blogging I thought it would be great to have a blog with many followers. Now I think the opposite. It's better to have a few followers that are true followers.

So to answer Paris at my Feet's question, blogging is definitely not dying but metamorphosing into something else. Yes, there are more and more lifestyle blogs, but there is definitely a group of us 'personal' bloggers that still exists and is strong. I'm glad to be part of that group!

Ok, I'm off to celebrate whatever is left of the night. Happy New Year to all my blogger readers and best of luck in 2014.

Here's a confession for you: I can't wait to dig my hand into those M&M peanuts. Yes, that's just how humanly weak I am. Oh, well!

Foie gras as far as the eye can see! Author of photo: Den Nation.

The city that was never meant to be

This is the tale of the city that was never meant to be…

I absolutely love this place. Really, I could totally see myself living there.

So the city I almost moved to (twice) was…

Panoramic view. Photo by Den Nation.

Besançon!!!

I’m not surprised that nobody recognised it from the pictures. Hardly anybody has ever heard of Besançon. I certainly had never heard about it.

Back in the spring of 2007 when I was in my 2^nd year of university all the language students were deciding where to go on their year abroad. A language degree at a British university usually lasts 4 years; the 3^rd year is spent in the country or countries where your language(s) are spoken. You could spend your year at a European (Erasmus) or non-European university, on a work placement, or as a language assistant teaching English. The year abroad is obligatory for most students, but if you have a good reason not to do it, you could be exempted from doing it and go directly into 4^th year. Most mature students, which was what I was, that ask to be exempted receive the exemption.

I asked to be exempted from the year abroad, but the more I thought about it, the more it bothered me not to it. I knew that I probably would never have a chance like that again, and that if I didn’t do it I would regret it forever. So I told the head of my programme that I changed my mind. That decision changed the rest of my life forever.

Comté and Morbier come from the region surrounding Besançon.
Photo by Den Nation.

As I had changed my mind quite late in the process, there were no spots left at the universities (Erasmus) that were reserved for my programme (translation).  So I had to pick from the universities that were reserved for regular language students. Brest, Arras and Besançon were the cities that still had spots. I couldn’t see myself going somewhere as remote as Brest and while I was tempted by Arras, I chose Besançon. It fit all my criteria: surrounded by small mountains, small city known for its friendliness, bucolic region, beautiful architecture, great local cuisine, campus in the city centre, low cost of living, safe, easy access to other countries (Switzerland, Italy and Germany), etc. I read everything I could get my hands on about Besançon and stared at countless pictures. I really had my heart set out on going there.

Then, one day, my euphoria ended. I was leaving the language building at uni when a professor stopped me, “Did you hear, Den Nation, a spot opened up in Bordeaux and you’re no longer going to Besançon! Isn’t that great?!”

My heart just fell to my stomach. “No, I hadn’t heard, that’s good, thanks for telling me,” I replied, trying to feign some enthusiasm.

I didn’t want to go to Bordeaux. I was absolutely against it. However, because of the programme I was enrolled in, I didn’t have a choice if one of the reserved schools had a spot. I was going to Bordeaux whether I liked it or not.

I had the summer to try and get used to the idea, but I couldn’t. I tried to tell myself that it would be great; that the weather would be better, that the city was beautiful, that the food was good, anything to convince myself. But I couldn’t fall in love with it: I didn’t like wine at the time and Bordeaux is pretty isolated from other countries; except for Spain that is, and I was going to Spain during the second semester of my year abroad.

Along the Doubs River and facing the Citadelle. Photo by Den Nation.

I decided that I would just stay and travel in the region and concentrate on learning the language. Now, years later, I’m glad that I took that attitude. I was there to learn about France and the language after all.

It was during my semester as an Erasmus student in Bordeaux that I met my husband (I think I’ll save that story for another post) so now when I think back on when that professor told me about the change and how I felt… I am so grateful that a spot became available at the last minute!

The summer after my Erasmus year was over I finally made it out to Besançon. It was everything I thought it would be and more. It was such a moving visit: it confirmed what I knew all along, that it was the place for me in France. In my 4^th year at university back in the UK I befriended a girl from Besançon (she was as Erasmus student) and we are still friends to this day. All the signs kept pointing me in that direction…

Fast forward to June 2009. I was finishing my 4^th year at university in the UK with my bisontine friend. My husband had applied to be a fonctionnaire and had taken and passed the competitive exams to be accepted at a fonctionnaire. The nature of his job (academia) meant that he had to audition for a particular position in front of a jury – he couldn’t just be muté (sent by the French government to work in a certain place). So he went around the country auditioning in several cities, including Besançon.

We had left Bordeaux together after the summer of 2008, me to complete my 4^th year of university and him to Paris for a CDD. We really didn’t think that we would ever go back to Bordeaux and Besançon had already slipped from my fingers. There was no guarantee that he would get an academic job. We were almost certain that he would be working another CDD job another year as he was inexperienced and applying again the next year.

Besançon is famous for its grey and pink façades. Photo by Den Nation.

He got the job in Besançon!

I just couldn’t believe it. I kept thinking excitedly, “It’s baaaaaaack!” I was so ecstatic; it was like I was walking on air. I couldn’t believe I was being given another chance.

But guess what? A few days after Besançon offered him a position, good old Bordeaux called and offered him one too. I was incredulous; how could it come down to the same two places again?

You already know which one we picked. Well, my husband picked Bordeaux, not me. I actually think that professionally Besançon would have been easier for me (close to Switzerland), but the position in Bordeaux was more prestigious for him. Thanks to Bordeaux’s prestige in my husband’s field, it will be easier for him to obtain a more higher ranking fonctionnaire position one day. That’s why I said yes.

That was the tale of the city that was just never meant to be.

Bordeaux, the city that was always just meant to be. Photo by Den Nation.

The day after the harvest

"Aaahhh," I screamed to my husband from the bedroom, "I can't move, help me!"

This was me the day after I picked grapes for a vineyard near Bordeaux. Today I'm going to tell you about the reality of grape picking.

There are loads of people with romantic views of coming to France and spending a few weeks getting "back to the basics" by participating in a grape harvest. The reality of the work is very different from the image these people have in their minds. How do I know this? I was one of these people.

Most of the work is done by family, interns who are paid next to nothing, immigrants from developing countries, or people who are "experts" at this kind of work - people who are used to physical labour and toiling in the fields.

Looks so innocent, doesn't it? Author of photo: Den Nation.

There are opportunities for tourists to experience picking grapes during a harvest, but let me tell you something: make sure that the owners are aware that you are a newbie and don't ever try to work as fast and as hard as the "experts". The wine chateau will have their own employees, either the immigrants as seasonal labour or the "experts". I find that the chateaux are not hiring immigrants like they used to: they prefer cheap interns or free help from their family or friends. There are also tons of wineries around Bordeaux looking to hire labourers, but my feeling is that they want to hire skilled labourers (the "experts") not immigrants who are just passing through. This is probably because technology has erased the need for the immigrants doing manual picking; the chateaux need skilled labourers that know how to handle machinery.

Please don't do what I did:

Me: "There's nothing to this, of course I can keep up with the "experts".

Me the next day: "What was I thinking..."

The experience is wonderful, but this is the reality: it is back-breaking work, you will be dirty, the sun will burn you, and your muscles will scream in pain the next day.

At the end of the day I felt fine. I laughed all though the evening with my fellow workers during the dinner at the chateau. I declared that I had never felt better. Haha!

You know how you feel the day after having done some strenuous exercise after a long break? You know the pulling and burning in your muscles that you feel that make walking uncomfortable? Well, the day after I picked graped I felt that. I felt like that times a hundred.

It was the worst muscle pain I had ever felt. So bad that I physically couldn't get out of bed. I went to move my legs and was doubled over with pain. I crawled on the floor to get to the bathroom in the mornings and it took 5 minutes to crawl a few metres. My legs were the worst, so I would use my arms to pull myself on the floor and drag my legs behind. It even hurt just to move my head to the right 5cm. And you know how that pain you feel after exercising lasts a day or two? Well, this lasted 10 days. I'm not kidding, I dragged myself around the house for at least a week.

The moral of the story? Don't be like me and assume that anyone can pick grapes. It's a great experience, but it's not for everybody. You have to start at the crack of dawn as grapes are best picked when it is cooler outside. You work the entire day because when the harvest has to come in, it has to be done ASAP. 10 hour days are not uncommon. A grape harvest is an extremely intensive and delicate operation, one where timing counts for everything. I had these thoughts of spending the day outside under the sun eating the grapes while I worked, talking with the others, admiring the grapes while I picked them, taking the time to breath in the fresh vineyard air... Yeah, right.

The "experts" are like robots - they are so fast you can't even see them picking. I wanted to be just like them, to be part of the gang.

My neighbour works at a wine chateau. She gets up everyday at the crack of dawn and spends the day doing what she loves. This involves a lot of physical activity, but she is used to this and is very athletic to begin with so has little problems with the physical aspect of the job. Being a woman in this industry makes everything harder, but she has such motivation and she works even harder.

Me? I had these ideas of doing some harvest work every year to pick up a little bit of extra money. Who was I kidding?! There's not an athletic bone in this padded body of mine!

I think I'll just to stick to doing what I do best...

Drinking wine!

Cheers! Author of photo: Den Nation.

News

Ok, so I'll just come out and say it: I'm starting a master's programme this autumn. Actually, I've already started. I am going to keep on blogging as to be honest, I am really enjoying interacting with my "Den Nation Blogging Family." I can't believe how many great blogs there are out there and I am happy to finally have "met" you all (after lurking for a couple of years).

I've decided to enroll as a full-time student while still working part-time on the side and travelling (of course, I can't give that up, but this means I'll be working in my hotel room all of next week). Maybe I am crazy, but after spending months of wallowing in my self-pity, I've decided to finally get out and try to change things. This involves finally completing a master's degree. I can't explain it, this has been something that I have wanted to do for a long, long time. A dream you could say. I want to prove to myself that I can do it.

Thankfully I have found an online master's programme that I can fit around my schedule (and my travels!). I am really intimidated by some of the other students, not because they are unfriendly, on the contrary, but because it seems like they know so much compared to me. I feel like I have years of reading to catch up on in order to reach their level of knowledge.

I'll leave you with a few pictures of the city I'll be staying in next week. Any guesses as to where I'm going?

Along the river. Author of photo: Den Nation.

Panoramic view of the city. Author of photo: Den Nation.

For anybody who has been to this city, this picture is a dead giveaway.
Author of photo: Den Nation.

I know there are some of you who know where I am going - please abstain from guessing!

Note: This is one of my favourite places in France and this was where I was almost sent to by my home university on my Erasmus year. At the last minute, the placement fell threw and I was sent to Bordeaux instead. In my last year at university in the UK, I met a French girl from this city who remains my friend to this day (one of my few French friends). I always wonder how my life would have turned out had I been sent here.

My language gaffe - in English!

Those of you who live in a country that speaks a language that is different from your mother language know all about language gaffes.

Every native English speaker living in France knows about the preservative/préservatif false friend. Never, never make the mistake of telling your French hosts at the dinner table that you think American food is full of condoms and that you prefer French food because it's not full of condoms.

But what if your language gaffe wasn't in French, but in English? It's kind of hard to imagine when your native language is English. But it happened to me. 

So, without futher ado, I present my British language gaffe. Enjoy! 

Cardiff Castle in Wales. Author of photo: Den Nation.

It is my second year of university in the UK. I am going down the stairs and am in between classes. My teacher stops me and asks: 

Male teacher: "I heard you talking in class about how you have a really important appointment later today and that you don't have enough time to make it over there on your bicycle after your last class. I'm heading to that area after your last class so I can drive you there."

(Note: This teacher had a really relaxed attitude and a friendly approach with his students. He was the type of guy that would say hello to his students in the supermarket and drive them home. He was always up for a chat and a cup of tea. He had absolutely no ulterior motives in his offer.)

Me: "Oh, thanks, that's really nice of you, but Dave (not his real name) is going to give me a ride in his car." 

Silence.

Later, once I am in Dave's (my classmate) car. 

Me: "The teacher was really quiet today after I told him that you were going to give me a ride."

British Dave bursts out laughing.

Me: "What?" I am slightly annoyed. 

Dave: "You basically told him that we were going to have sex in my car." 

Me: "I did not!" Now I am really annoyed.

Dave: "Yes, you did. 'To give somebody a ride' is British slang for having sex."

I am just gobsmacked. And really ticked off. Please somebody just open a hole and swallow me up. How could I not know this?

Me: "So what was I supposed to say?"

Dave: "You should have used 'giving a lift' instead or something along those lines."

Needless to say, I couldn't look the teacher in the eye for weeks afterwards.

Edit: Read my comment to Crystal about another British language gaffe I committed. 

Not your everyday houseshare

We all know how difficult it is to find affordable, and acceptable, housing in Paris. It is so hard that many people are scammed in the process - I've read some blog posts written by expats who have been cheated out of their money. Finding a place to live in Paris is a long and expensive process, one that I am relieved to not have to go through.

I'm not here to talk about finding housing in Paris, though. I'm here to talk about another "type" of housing. One that I never imagined existed, at least not in cold Paris.

A few years ago my husband's friend was looking for a place to live in Paris. This friend came from Algeria and had an Algerian name. It's already hard enough for a Frenchman to find accommodation in Paris, but it's even harder for somebody who has a foreign name (especially for someone from Africa or Asia).

When my husband's friend would call a potential landlord, the conversation often went like this:

Husband's friend: "Hello, I'm calling to ask about the room to rent. Can I have an appointment to come and see it?"

Potential landlord: "What is your professional situation?"

Husband's friend: "My name is .... and I work as a scientist at the ..." (gets cut off)

PL: Rambles off some excuse to get off the phone and get rid of my husband's friend.

Two months go by like this. My husband's friend is getting tired of crashing at friends' places. One day he sees an ad for a room that looks promising. He calls the number and the person who answered the phone was surprisingly friendly. He feels that something is not quite right, but he goes over to visit the property anyway.

A café in Paris. Author of photo: Den Nation.

He is interviewed by a friendly couple in the apartment's living room. The apartment was clean, the couple was friendly, the price wasn't too expensive (for Paris), the location was all right. Everything was too good to be true...

"Oh, by the way, we are nudists," the couple mention at the end of the interview.

"Nudists, what?" said the friend.

"That's right, we believe in nudism, this is a nudist apartment."

Our friend is silent, obviously confused.

The couple continues, "Yes, there is a no-clothes allowed rule here." "As soon as we enter the apartment we remove all of our clothing and the clothes stay off." "We know what you must be thinking, but we are serious and this is something we really believe in."

Our friend is speechless.

"There are 3 of us living here now and we are totally comfortable with being nude and you would have to be too." "So what do you think?"

"I'll have to think about it," responds our friend.

He really did think about it. It's not that this kind of living arrangement bothered him, it just really caught him off guard, but ultimately he decided against it. He found a place to live shortly afterwards.

A Parisian residential building. Author of photo: Den Nation.

I'm not against this type of living arrangement either, but a few questions come to mind. What do you do if you want to have company over? And what about the winter? I asked our friend about this and he didn't ask the first question, but the answer to the second question was that, yes, they kept their clothes off all year, even in the dead of winter. I just can't imagine that! When I think about how cold some apartments can get in France, I can't imagine living nude in January in a freezing apartment. Either their heating bill must be really high or, in the case of shared heating (where the temperature is controlled by a central source so the apartment units of a building are all at the same temperature) there are some elderly people living in the building that have managed to convince the building's management to keep the temperature high. That, or the building is insulated quite well. Can you tell I suffer during the winter here in cold apartments?

So, I wonder, has anybody else had any experiences like this, in France or anywhere else?