The Red Tape of Love and Marriage

Getting married in France is, well, fricken' complicated. My birth certificate arrived from the land of aloha-style, (aka three weeks late in all directions,) and A and I faced the challenge of getting it translated IMMEDIATELY so that we could dash in the city hall and reserve a date. (Everything is happening in high speed, I remind you, so that we can submit his green card application ASAP.) The only official translator we could find in Dijon was expensive, old, unfriendly, and clearly insane. 

On the day it was supposed to be ready for pickup, I rented a street bike and ventured far and away in the freezing rain to find her hermit-like dwelling. When I buzzed, her wrinkled face appeared peering around a lace white curtain in a window above me. She had tapped on the glass to get my attention. She looked suspicious, so I waved. She disappeared for a moment, then opened the door to demand what I wanted. I said I was there for the birth certificate. She responded with a blank expression. "..The translation? For the birth certificate from Hawaii?" I added meekly.

Finally, signs of recognition. "-I told you after 10am!" 

"...It's 11..?" I offered delicately. She sized me up a few more moments before allowing me in to sit beside a giant, stuffed elephant to wait for my documents.

Couldn't dash away from there fast enough. Then, meeting A at the city hall with our hundred-page dossier, we are told that our attestations of residence, a bank statement for me and an insurance statement from A, were no good. Too old and they don't accept bank statements. We run home and scrounge up a phone bill for me and and a newer insurance statement for A. Then back to the city hall, where we hold hands in the seats across the desk from the mairie, panting. -She tells us they don't take phone bills either and points out that there were two addreses on A's insurance - one ours and one his parents - (which was "confusing,") so no good. We're told to go the office of electricity in town and get one there with both our names. We gather up our dossier once again and run across town to find that the office is closed uniquely that day for re-decorating. Awesome!

At that point we were out of ideas and returned to the city hall defeated. We ended having to photocopy every piece of identify in existence for A so that I could return the next day without him after going back to the electricity office and getting an appropriate attestation. Far from a walk in the park, this business! Luckily, I got it done this morning and we now have an official date: the 25th of May. (-Three weeks after the date we wanted, but beggars can't be choosers.) 

The one enjoyable part of the whole effort was putting a heart on the calendar.  That part felt good. 

 

(Dijon's city hall) 

A Dad, Overcome with Sentimentality, Plans to Cross Two Oceans to Attend a Civil Union

When dad first heard I was having a semi-secret civil marriage in mere weeks, I heard from the family that he more or less retreated into a few days of mumbling and non-communication. Word on the family grape vine was that he was "sulking;" -expected, maybe, of any daddy when he hears the news second and it's that his youngest kid is tying the knot. But, as is the usual pattern with my dad, what is first rebutted usually resolves into agreement with time, and, a few days after the news broke the headlines, daddy called waxing poetic about who would give his daughter away at the ceremony- "out alone into the open seas, no longer under the watchful eye of her father?" 

For some context, daddy's a gruff old naval captain from the times of yore, a sea dog, so the ocean-themed sentiments were all very touching and.. salty. 

Day before yesterday I received an ominous one sentence email saying that I was going to meet daddy in Paris, "9:45 in mrn on 2nd." Initially I was filled with terror. How was I going to get up there and fetch him? How was I going to guide him through the airports and onto the metro if he tries to go into the city without me? Where will we put him up? How long is he staying? What will A's parents think? How will they communicate?? 

That said, like my dad, what was first met with rebuttal has since metled into acceptance. The above questions remain unanswered and he's been very secret and vague about his travel plans, but all n' all I'm glad he's coming. It will be hilarious watching A's parents try to communicate with him, in a few words of English and daddy's few words of comically self assured island-French which he picked up in the 70's in Tahiti with a crew of vulgar sea dogs. :)

If I'm Gonna Have a Tiny Wedding it's Gonna be a Tiny Hit

Yesterday I found my mini wedding dress for my impending mini wedding. Paired with an updo and some pearls I think it will do perfectly. -So perfectly, in fact, I think I'll probably wear it at the real ceremony in several years. Plus, $60 is a nice price tag for wedding attire. 

The Mechanics of Decision Making and the Joy of "Yes"

I realize I never gave much insight into the lengthy and somewhat painful decision making process that came with deciding to get married. I went through the most absurd and, I have to say, surprising phase of fear, uncertainty, and all around cold feet. Before the concept of suddenly getting married had arose, I was fairly preoccupied with the idea of marriage and convinced I wanted A to be my family. But, once the real decision was put on the table and I was given a week to pick a side, all of that confidence fell off me like snow evacuating a rugged mountain peak in a brisk avalanche. 

The string of stinging questions: Will I never have romance again? Is he the right one? What about butterflies? Crushes? The thrill of meeting someone new and the electricity of new attraction? Is he the right one? Is he really, really the right one????

Close friends and colleagues were concerned that if I were plagued by these questions I probably shouldn't go through with it. Their doubt only intensified my own, and on several occasions I was firmly convinced the answer would be "no." 

In retrospect it's hard for me to wrap my head around this, because in the decision making after math, the storm subsided and  warm elation took its place. When I was agonizing and going back and forth, I even asked A while we were having a drink in a wine bar on the beach, (seriously,) "aren't you concerned about never having another girlfriend..?" He matter-of-factly shrugged and said "no." -without a moment's hesitation. I was impressed, but still churning with an internal ocean of turbulence.

Now, in the weeks after "yes," everything has calmed. Like when the wizard comes into the room after Mickey had caused the big flood with all the bewitched brooms in Fantasia- he just waves his hands and all the rushing water subsides. I'm confident and happy. Now that I'm no longer stressing over the decision, I think I can actually see the reality of the situation: I'm in love! And, geez, I'm happy! And even more surprising and elating, I don't give a damn about crushes and electric attraction. I've had plenty of that and none of it compares to the real thing. The real joy of being with someone who speaks to you on much more than a superficial level. 

We're not doing it the conventional way, sure, or even the most glamorous or romantic. But it's the right way- and it feels so good to know it. 

Paris Perturbé

OH. MY. GOD. If anyone had ever suffered a more miserable day trip to Paris I  would be very surprised. Of course I was mildly excited, I love Paris, (who doesn't) and was looking forward to lunch someplace romantic on a pleasant spring day + getting my marriage paperwork + scenic train ride home with little to no complications.

Well. Ominously just before I arrive at the train station here in Dijon, I get a puzzling text from SNCF telling me that circulation is "fortement perturbé," and that I can exchange or cancel my ticket at the service desk. But, I've just arrived, I'm a bit late, and see on the information boards that my train is at the quai, à l'heure, and ready to leave. So I figure the SNCF people have gone insane and I jump on moments before the doors close and the train starts rolling. 

I text A to tell him how silly the SNCF people are and sit back happily.

As the train moves North, the warm sunlight of Spring turns from pleasant, to gray, to snow blizzard. Before I know it the train is stopped on the tracks in a sea of white, where we sit for the next two hours. I miss my embassy appointment and learn from the chatter around me that the Gare de Lyon is completely blocked by snow, no one is getting in or out, and I start fearing for how I'm going to get home in the evening. I havent eaten and I start thinking I might die. Also, I'm not dressed for snow. 

The train finally arrives in blizarding Paris at 2:30 in the afternoon, two and a half hours after my appointment. (I tried calling the embassy on the train but the operator kept disconnecting me or sending me to an answering machine.) I run down into the metro and catch the subway to rue Rivoli, just beside the gardens at the Louvre. I pop back up into the freezing snow blizzard and see the hazy, gray form of the Eiffel Tower peering through the white and for a moment feel a little burst of butterflies in my heart: I can never see that tower without remembering how in love I am with the city. The moment is short lived however, as I shield my eyes from the snow and skid across the slushy, busy intersections to the embassy. 

I get there and only one guichet is left open. I take a number and wait. After 20 minutes, the person abandons their post and I'm seemingly left alone in the American Embassy. A janitor eventually approaches me and asks what I'm doing. I tell him about my appointment and he tells me that everyone in notarial services is gone and that I'll have to come back another day. I muster my most miserable, helpless little girl face and tell him I don't live near Paris and can't come back. It seems to work and he takes pity on me and gets on the phone. Thank goodness, someone was still there for me and they met with me at one of the desks. Straight away they asked me if I had cash. I said no. Then they proceeded to tell me that they couldn't give me my marriage documents because the cashier had left and I couldn't pay with a credit card. I give her my miserable look I used earlier on the janitor. Again she takes pity on me and produces a map of the area. She draws a little path on it to an ATM, and tells me to hurry, because everyone was trying to leave.

Back out into the snow blizzard. I'll remind you here that I had bronchitis, was wearing spring clothes, and was running through a freezing wet blanket of white in a complete panic. Long story short, after stopping and asking several people in the streets,  I found the ATM, got back to the embassy in time, and got my paper work. By now it was time for my train home, so I turned on my heels and dashed directly back to the train station.. where all the trains were still delayed or canceled. Snow was falling in the station and I was freezing and still hadn't eaten. I took shelter in an expensive station cafe and made a hot chocolate last for the rest of the evening until finally, a train heading south appeared on the info board. I got home at 8 feeling victimized. Dieu merci, A had made me a bath and a cocktail. 

Sitting in the hot tub and sipping my drink, I thought, at least I'm marrying the right guy. 

Come What May

The annual wine gala was on the 2nd of March and I went despite being under the weather. I just couldn't handle missing the occasion to wear the dress, the shoes, the updo, etc. and leave A on his own for a raucous night of drinking. I SHOULD have, because I'm still hacking and coughing and suffering the slow pain of bronchitis and walking pneumonia. That'll teach me. I spent most of the night with my head down on the table feeling angry with A for drinking himself into a stupor. 

ANYWAY, as most events tend to produce, I have a slew of classy, happy looking photos which misrepresent the evening ENTIRELY. 

The day of the big decision was the day after and, facing swelling tonsils and a hungover boyfriend, (surprisingly) I decided the marriage was a go. (It took a lot of convincing though, that day and the next, trying to drown out the image of him singing and yelling on the bus home at 5am while I suffered in a little germy ball against the window.) 

So we're getting married. We're going to set the date in May. Alban has told his parents and I've told mine, which for both of us was sort of the officiating move. Tomorrow I'm catching a train to Paris to pick up some documents I'll need at the American embassy. 

I went with a girlfriend to city hall to pick up the dossier  several days ago and we were mistaken for a couple trying to have a gay wedding. A cheery, American couple trying to have a gay wedding. The woman at the desk told me very seriously it might be complicated and my friend and I both looked confused until we figured out what was going on. Never underestimate the danger of doing anything oficial in your second language. 

hew! 

Just Say "Yes."

Marriage. All those times I've whined and complained about wanting to get hitched. Now, grace of a series of events which I shall summarize below, I have until SUNDAY, as in, March 3, 2013, to decide if I'm going to legally marry my boyfriend or not, and I'm cripplingly conflicted.

Over the past two years, our relationship has been plagued by international paperwork obstacles: I have to pay high taxes on my visitors visa and have never managed to get the right to work. Now, that A, (formerly TMI,) and I have decided to move to the United States' west coast in september to work on our respective fields, (winemaking and art dealing,) the issue of "how are we going to be legal" has again wedged itself into our relationship to jeopardize our plans and career and even threaten to tear us apart, for good. 

Coincidentally, there is another couple our age here in Dijon going through THE EXACT SAME SITUATION. I met the girl on expat forums and, like me, she moved here on a touristic visa to live with her french honey. They've also decided to move to The States in September to work and have decided to legally marry here in France to solve their travel and right-to-work problems. She and I have booked a train ticket to go to the American embassy in Paris together in several days to get some of our necessary documents and begin the process. 

A has agreed, but I keep going back and forth. We had an enormous fight night before last about how I like to read not-necessarily-scientific articles about "hippy" health and lifestyle topics like yoga, microwaves, chi, chacras, etc. I dont necessarily believe all of it, but I appreciate it and enjoy reading about it. Conversely, it drives A crazy that I would read and consider anything that isn't published in a scientific journal and doesn't have data behind it. My argument is that I like to read both sides of everything and am naturally curious. His is that I "don't know how to research." He's very judgmental in this sense, and I, this week more than ever, am being VERY critical. 

On the other hand,  I've resolved that our basis for marriage is more practical and sensible than most puppy-love young couple situations. We have a very promising career path that we're both rearing to takle together, and marrying as an international couple opens up many opportunities for the both of us. In addition, we've been living together two years and are happy, seemingly compatible, and in love.

The stipulations are as follows: No rings, no name change, no hullabaloo, and no spreading of the word. We plan to have a real ceremony in several years and don't want to detract the significance from it. 

We've decided to decide by Sunday, so I have time to cancel my embassy appointment in Paris. Woah!

Blogging From Abroad: Version 2.0

It's been a hundred years, much has happened, and at last I think its time for IFFTP to rise from hibernation, shake the snow off, and turn over a new leaf for Spring.

For those of you who are still around after the long hiatus, I've put a lot of thought into the fate of this blog and have decided that in order for it to continue it has to make some serious style and behavioral changes. When IFFTP began, I was a bit of a swinger set lose in the streets of France and made that more or less the topic of the blog. Times have changed though, and it would seem I've been roped into a domestic relationship. No longer is it practical to try and talk under cover about my sex life and not expect personal repercussions. (-And at times long, lame, hiatuses.)

So! Change number 1 is that I want to change the focus of my blog from sexual gossip, (sad I know,) to travel, eating healthy abroad, and the trials and tribulations of international relationship and romance. (They'll be some mild sexual gossip, of course, I can't resist a little from time to time.)

That said, I've just returned from the South of France, Perpignan, from visiting with my boyfriend's parents. (Formally known as TMI, now known as "A". Gasp!)  The train home today returned us to the snowy, cold and gray region of Burgundy that we presently call home. Statistics show that Dijon saw an astounding 12 hours of sunlight in the month of July- Astounding because I'd personally guesstimated it to be much less.

While in the South, we visited Eus, known as one of the most beautiful villages of France. Pretty enchanting. Especially the feline inhabitants. 

Posts to come: 

1: I'm probably getting legally married for passport benefits in a mere few weeks. Serious case of cold feet inevitable. 

2: I'm starting a juice fast wednesday to evacuate 2 years of french toxins

3: I'm randomly visiting my radically anti-establishment middle school professors on an impromptu adventure to Crete in several weeks. 

Exclusivity Before Commitment

I thought girl talk was supposed to clarify, sort through, and expand on man issues. In France I've missed out on this kind of banter for the past 2 years, and now I can say, returning from an evening of presque non-stop man/dating/interpreting of hidden messages chatter, I have never been more confused. 

Tonight I was told that the "girlfriend/boyfriend" thing works for guys, because they can date a woman for years and never consider marrying her, but it doesn't work for women. Women apparently don't have monogamous sexual relationships without attachment and a goal of commitment. The open-ended intimacy doesn't work with us. So! What is the solution according to my gal pals? No committed relationships until marriage: in other words, no exclusivity until someone is willing to offer commitment in exchange. 

Apparently it's ok to stop having sex with other people, but dating should remain open until the one "steps up" (I prefer sacks up) and is ready to give you commitment in exchange for  your fidelity and exclusivity. (Which, as the theory goes, would work since women can't give that without getting attached.)

This tends to go against my current belief system which tells me good love and good relationships come from monogamy and intimacy, so go for it, but my attached and insecure side wonders if I'm doing it all wrong.  

Is it ok to give it all? Or are we giving it all to soon? 

Marriage and Cancer

Today at Kukio there was another wedding. I swear someone is getting married there every weekend, often consecutively on saturday and the someone else on sunday. All this beach wedding action plus my brother and future sister in laws' frantic wedding prep has really put me off to the whole thing. I may be desperate to make the man I love my family, but I have zero interest in wearing a pouffy dress and holding his hands in front of a crowd while some over-charismatic speaker leads us through a cheesy, religious, or cliche ceremony. 

Ideally: discreet but classy dress; an intimate party of 10-15; there's excellent liqueur and great food; I'm cozy in my partner's lap while people laugh and drink; sometime at the end we sign the papers with no show whatsoever. No photographer, no vows, no cake, no bouquet, and definitely no pouffy dress.

Before I fell in love, I was all about the party. Now that I'm there, I just want spend my life with this guy. Screw the festivities. 

In totally unrelated news I have high risk HPV and mutated cells on both my cervix and vagina. So there goes the IUD option. Instead of the 5 minute installation I'd been sweating about, I had a half hour biopsy where chunks of  me were snipped out while I cried into a tissue on the doctors table. Girls are so sensitive. At least I am. You spend so much time meditating on the position that the only person you want anywhere near that area is the man you love, exclusively, and then you have to lie on a table for thirty minutes and get violated by sharp objects. 

The conclusion is that I may have cervical cancer, I don't know what I'm going to do about contraceptives, and I don't think I want a wedding.

Pliancy and Weakness

Today as I dried dishes in the cafe, gritting my teeth and grumbling because I am neither employee nor slave but treated as both, a plain looking girl, my age, received a wedding gift across the table. She had been married in Paris a week before.

My heart shrunk and sank to the back of my chest. The same thing had happened several weeks ago when watching the film The White Ribbon. The subtitles read: "That I would soon call this beloved creature my wife filled me with such elation.." the rest escapes me, but not the tightening in my chest. I kept repeating the words to myself the week through.

I know, I know. Every independent, self proclaimed woman of modernity and a true sense of self should be too wise to whimper and whine for marriage. But there is no secret to this anymore: I'm a young soul. In fact I'm firmly convinced that this is my first go at being a human, (if one is to believe such things) and was more likely drifting space dust in my last incarnation than anything dealing with human relationships and the task of loving one's self. I cry at music, laugh and clap at a bird taking a bath, blow every dandelion, am wildly superstitious and believe everything the first time I hear it.  The result is I'm a slave to my biology. Jealously lays me on the floor boards and insecurity walks all over me like a throw rug while my mind hasn't the vaguest idea how to conquer either.

Pliancy and weakness are expressions of the freshness of being, which leads me to believe my soul is squirming in a state of infancy. Long story short, I want desperately to be loved deeply, and, perhaps more over, with constant affirmation. I want someone to want to spend the rest of their life with me, and to prove it with paperwork. 

H, for Getting Hitched

Anyone who's been reading this blog for more than a few months will remember Harry, my irrational romance obsession in the weeks before I met my current squeeze and love of my life. The hippy in me says that if I'd never fallen for Harry and insisted on going out with him late in the night, I never would have met TMI, so the whole mess was fate, but that's another story.

The breaking news is that Harry's girlfriend just recently posted on Facebook a photo of her hand, newly adorned with a diamond ring. Well don't that just beat all. No, I'm not crushed, just jealous that she's wearing one and I'm not. What is it with 20-something girls and getting engaged anyway! For the record I'm in no hurry to be married, I just want to be intended; there's a big difference here. One is sexy, young, involves a diamond, and the other involves adulthood, feeling old, and housework. (In my young mind, anyway.)

So how has my mature and rational self handled this jealousy, one might ask? I bought a faux diamond and used the pretense that I was wearing it as creep repellant for a woman traveling alone, (which I am, after all) and also a young lady un-escorted by her boyfriend to clubs and bars. Whatever. I'm not too old for imaginary playing house, I guess.

p.s: if you haven't all ready, please remember to Fight for the Phoque, and send a message to the Canadian prime minister.

Dangerous Daydreams

Despite my efforts over the past few years to become a woman above irrational sentimentality, premature attachment, and above all, devoid of the foolishly romantic and idealistic fantasies of diamond rings, wedding dresses, and dramatic public proposals, I am a girl, after all.

Weddings drive me crazy. They absolutely do. In my opinion, a wedding should be a small intimate ceremony sans all the hubbub, and then, after the couple discovers they're still in love after ten years, comes the 100 guests, expensive catering, floral arrangements and enormous cake. Now that's something worth celebrating!

And yet, I remain a lover of romance novels and sappy love songs. Today, I actually caught myself day dreaming up a romantic marriage proposal while I washed the dishes. I dropped the cup I was so ashamed. It was TMI, on the beach at home in Hawaii, down on one knee and in front of my family. He was shamelessly singing devotion and my praises in a very long and unlikely speech.

What does this mean? I'll tell ya what this means. The fact that I was day dreaming about praise just proves that I'm in love with someone loving me and not the someone. I tried to warn the world (and myself) about this type of love in a previous post. Listen up, you can bet your buttons that if what makes you happiest is them telling you or showing you how much you mean to them, you're not in love with the right entity.

It be a dangerous and tricky world out there!