From Global Mom: A Memoir
(Cont’d from last post, “Le Chef Makes A Move”)
Then someone down on the road cleared his throat. “Madame,” Le Chef called up to me, in French with a Breton accent, “Uh, it’s maybe best you get something to write with.”
And after several hours of unloading a container that had not only been somehow partially submerged in water, but had been tampered with somewhere during its thousands of miles in transit, after those patient hours of watching these men fish out our waterlogged belongings from deep in this container, I filled seven full pages of legal pad note paper. Line upon line of damage, disappearance, and loss.
All eight beds and bed frames including headboards and bunk beds, trashed. Two vintage leather chairs from the Marché aux Puces, wedding gifts to each other, rotten from prolonged exposure to moisture and punctured with . . .bicycle handlebars? Lamps, crushed and bent around . . .a basketball? A couch, gored through with . . .fireplace pokers? Clothing, boxes of what we had planned on wearing the next week, rank and fuzzy with mildew. And in the end, a personal visit and apology from the global moving company’s owner and namesake.
Somehow, our Norwegian long table, shipped in a separate and smaller container, made it to France unscathed.
An email to a friend:
Unpacked 17 days straight. All the damaged stuff has to stay here so insurance folks can come by (when?) and verify damage. Moldy mattresses, broken bed frames, incinerated treadmill, everything, stacked against walls in an apartment one-third the size of U.S. home. Only clothes are what we had for summer vacation, we’re trying to clear a path through piles by taking stuff down into the communal cave beneath the building, the greasiest, dustiest dungeon in Paris. Borrowing towels, inflatable mattresses, essentials from church friends who schlep them here by Metro. Incredible folks! Haven’t had a chance to stock up on food which takes forever here, so I’ve been eating mini yogurts from the grocer’s down the street and handfuls of pretzels. R is “floundering”, he claims, totally consumed because his job is 100 percent in French every day. Works councils, labyrinth-like French legalese; he had to appear in court and testify in French last week, oh-la-la. P and C have long school days with a forty-five min bus ride both ways. D adjusting, which means, yes, I’m losing lots of sleep over him. (Can you lose “lots of sleep” from four hours of sleep? Do that math for me, will you dear?:-) Luc in sweet bilingual Montessori preschool across the street: saves my sanity. Living in the middle of Paris decidedly different experience from Versailles, and of course a universe apart from where we’ve just been. Intoxicating, energizing, really. At least. . . I hear it is, because I can’t get to it for all the piles and the work of replacing the piles and all the details of just getting settled, like finally getting working Internet, voilà! When I die and have that Life Review, the whole film’s going to be a vast landscape of moving boxes. Come visit when I have a few square inches for you to stand in.