First of all, Happy New Year! In France, people say, “Bonne Année,” and “Bonne Santé,” all through January, but not a minute before 12:00am on January 1! The photo above shows one patisserie’s offerings, including the Galette des Rois, otherwise known in Louisiana, as King Cakes. In both the original version and the U.S. one, there is a special token hidden in the cake. In France it is called a fève, or bean, but it is usually not an actual bean.
On New Year’s Eve, I brought such a cake to a small party. None of us found the fève that night, but the host later reported that it was in a piece she ate, and it was a gorilla! By the way, these cakes are always sold with paper crowns, and the person who finds the fève has to wear it!
The cake celebrates the arrival of the Three Wise Men in Bethlehem. Composed of a puff pastry cake, it is usually filled with frangipane, a cream made from sweet almonds, butter, eggs and sugar.
Of course, since it has been a while since I have posted anything, there are many stories to tell. But, today, I’ll relate this one.
I took possession of my apartment at the end of December. It took some time, though, to do a host of things, mostly bureaucratic, before I could comfortably move in. Meanwhile, I had been in a rental apartment, had an awful experience with a noise problem, thus went back to a hotel, where I’ve been for a week now.
Putting the electricity in my name was a priority. Virtually everything revolves around the electric bill in France, for it is this that tells the phone company and other businesses that you really are living here and thus deserving of a particular service.
I had already made four phone calls to the Electric Company over the past two weeks to try to accomplish this, but each time, they told me they needed some additional piece of information. Ultimately, they needed the number of the actual meter, which I could not access until the apartment was mine. Because the meter was too high for me to read, I needed to buy a step ladder. Having no idea how to find such a thing, I settled for a small metal stool (see pic). Thus, I accomplished, on phone call number 5, what I needed to, i.e., reading the numbers off to them, and getting the bill in my name. That felt great!
There were a couple of things in my new apartment I could not figure out, such as the heating/cooling system, essential at this time of year. Yes, it’s the French Riviera, but temps dip to 37 deg (F) at night. And as humidity is about 50%, it’s definitely cold! Yesterday, I asked a friend to come over to help me figure out a couple of things. He did so, and suddenly, I had lights, heat, internet (set up the previous day), everything that electricity could provide (no gas here). I was in heaven, enjoying the warmth of the apartment, reveling in unpacking my boxes (it felt like Christmas!) that had recently been transported by friends from Vence (a story for another day), and just feeling grateful that things were progressing so nicely. Noting hunger pangs, I remembered some leftover pizza, so decided to heat it up, and thus, having no microwave, turned on the oven.
Ahh, big mistake. Turning on the oven turned off everything else, and I was plunged into darkness. And, cold, as the heat started to dissipate. And, of course, no more internet. Or hot water. It seemed that the power in my apartment would need to be increased to handle all the appliances, etc., but that would be something to tackle the next day.
Fortunately, I was still in a hotel, so I returned to its warmth. I needed to be back at my apartment at 7 am in the morning (why on earth I had arranged for a 7am-12pm IKEA delivery, I’m still not sure), so I returned the next morning to await the arrival of a new bed. Still quite dark at that hour, the light in the stairway worked (as it was independent of my apartment). My apartment is up one flight of stairs (no elevator), so I sat in my doorway on the only seat I have (said stool) to take advantage of the hallway light, which lasted for 4 minutes before I needed to flip the switch on again. I sat for an hour, doing Duolingo lessons on my fully- charged phone, while I waited for 8 am, the start time of the English Electricity Hot Line.
At 8:01, I was connected to a charming French woman who spoke good English. She had me go through an hour’s worth of tests, while I stood on the stool reading off numbers and flipping switches. At one point, she said she had determined that the amount of power I had was just fine, and that I did not need to be upgraded. Every 10 minutes or so, she would put me on hold, while she consulted with a technician. When she returned, she was very gracious and apologetic about my wait. No problem…I just wanted to get the electricity back on. At the end of the hour, she apologized again, this time because she could not help me. She said that the problem was not at their end, but at mine, and I would need to call a private electrician. My heart sank upon hearing this. Now, what would be required to not only find an electrician, but to get the person to come out that day? This seemed like an impossible task. But, in considering my options, I thought of another resource to help me find such a professional. My realtor, who is a Buyer’s Agent, has been terrific about helping me follow up on things, even post-sale. However, the day before, he had texted me that he would be out for medical reasons, and that I should call someone I did not know, Nicoletta, giving me her number, so she could help me in his stead. So, a new person to explain things to (she spoke English), but I called her and explained the situation.
She was lovely and sympathetic, saying that, really, I would need to contact the Syndic (the property management company) to get the name of an electrician. Of course, calling the Syndic meant speaking in French. At this turn of events, I felt my remaining strength leave me, and frankly just wanted to sit down and cry. I actually started to on the phone, but Nicoletta was kind and reassuring, saying she could talk to the Syndic, if I wished. I thanked her but remembered that the President of the Board in my apartment, whom I had met twice in the hallway, had told me to call her if she needed anything. Of course, she also spoke no English.
I bucked up and called her, realizing that sitting on the floor and crying was simply not going to turn the lights back on. Oh my, what kindness she showed me. I asked her to speak slowly, which she did. I explained the whole situation to her in my halting French. She responded by coming down (she’s three floors up) and doing all the things that I had just done with the electric company, testing this switch and that, while standing on the stool. I didn’t mind; maybe she knew something that I didn’t (highly likely). By the way, she’s 70, and did not mind at all getting up and standing on that small stool.
When she could not figure it out, she phoned Fabrice, her “amour,” as she called him, who is the concierge for the building across the street. He came over and also looked at everything but could not figure out the problem. Fabrice actually spoke some English, which was a relief, so I at least could communicate with him comfortably. He made some calls and said that an electrician friend of his would be coming to my place at 2 pm. Incredible, what these two people were doing on my behalf, a stranger who needed their help.
So, I had a couple of hours in my cold apartment to wait for the electrician. The madame to the rescue! She invited me to her place for a coffee. Of course, I accepted, and went up to her floor and was charmed by her old-world furnishings and decor. No modern interior design for her! She asked me what kind of coffee I liked, how strong I liked it, did I take milk or sugar, and then prepared to make it. She even showed me several sizes of mugs, asking which size I preferred. After I specified all, she beckoned for me to sit down, and brought over a tray with the coffee, some Italian cookies, and a napkin. I looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to bring her coffee over, but she explained her regimen, and how she doesn’t eat until noon or later. This mid-morning coffee was just for me. We proceeded to talk for the next 15 minutes or so. I caught the gist of most of what she was saying, and I tried to contribute as much as I could. At one point, I asked her if she had children, as I saw some photos in a frame on the wall. She explained she had two, who are in their 50’s now. They were extremely attractive and looked like interesting people. She then walked me through her whole apartment, explaining what the different rooms were for. She had bought the apartment next to hers and remodeled everything, so that she had entire rooms for laundry, for dressing, for bathing (that room was as large as one of my bedrooms). I saw a couple of additional pictures on the wall and asked about them. She said they were of her. Wow, what a knockout, which led me to ask if she had been an actress. No, she said, a model (mannequin, in French!). I’m sure she turned many heads in her day, and even now, her beauty is obvious in her high cheekbones, twinkly eyes and wide smile.
Sure enough, Fabrice and his friend came over early afternoon. His friend, the electrician, looked at everything, removing this panel and that, and declared that there was no way it ever could have worked, since the main wire was not connected. I told them that in fact, the lights, internet, and heating HAD been on for a while the previous night. The electrician did not see how that was possible, and uttered, with a wry smile, the only English I heard him speak, “Ghost”! At that point, I realized it was just going to remain a mystery, since I was happy to have all my devices working again.
I’ve learned that when you thank someone here for what seems like an extraordinary act, they reply with, “C’est normal,” and a shrug of their shoulders, expressing that it’s just what one does in these situations, so no hero worship necessary. Of course, to me, it is! These people were my heroes! In fact, it was only now that the held-back tears started to fall, out of simple gratitude for having been shown such unexpected kindness and generosity.
Later I met the only other permanent occupant of my eight-unit building, a Russian named Alexander, who has lived here two years. The other owners evidently treat this as their second home, popping in only now and then. With all the support awarded me so soon after moving in, I feel accepted and cared for, and, truly, what more could one ask as a newcomer in a foreign country?
