Settling In

It is Monday, Day 4 in my new apartment. It is the day that the US Government is putting Fannie Mae into receivership. It is also the day before I leave for six days of camping and music in Corsica. Today marks the end of the second week since I arrived in France. Amazing. My world spins on an axis that is hard for even me to comprehend sometimes. For the record, I’m not sleeping soundly quite yet. For those keeping track, I’m getting tired of my lists. For me to truly relax, I think I need to get rid of the lists.

Spending a few hours on the beach in the late afternoon, just lying there in the sun, listening to the pounding waves, the chatter of children, and the noises on the Promenade, is good for me. It’s a time to not think and plan and organize. I listen music on my iPod Shuffle sometimes. Sometimes not. I have set up several playlists; I’m getting a little sophisticated with this new toy. I actually have time to play with my toy – and figure out things like playlists!

I moved into my new apartment on Friday afternoon, after a whirlwind walkthrough with Martina. Actually, she was pretty thorough, but you know the French, the way they do things just sounds like a whirlwind. All that chatter. Martina and I fell into using a mix of French and English; it worked for us. My big mistake was not to have her show me how to use the washing machine and the stove. Well, I think she thought she had showed me the stove, but let’s just say that at the moment I am glad that there is one electric burner on the stove range, in addition to the three gas burners. Haven’t determined at the moment whether the gas is really on. But at least I can make coffee in the morning.

After Martina and I had finished that afternoon, I called Christiana to have her drive down to my place with my things. We had loaded the car earlier that morning, as I had gone off at noon to meet Priscilla for lunch down at the old port, where she was teaching an English class to a bunch of ship captains (turns out they need to know English too!). The walkthrough was at 2:30; I called Christiane around 3:30. She appeared about 15 minutes later; she couldn’t find a place to park, so we just unloaded my things: my big red roller bag, my black duffel, my new pillow, the box that I had sent over, and a bag of food items. She gave me a hug; we made plans to meet the next evening to go to a fair in the old port, and then she was gone.

So, there I was, in my own place, barely two weeks after having arrived in Nice. The first thing I wanted to do was to figure out bedding. Turns out fully furnished meant everything but sheets and towels, and frankly, once you think about using someone else’s bedding and towels…having to get my own made complete sense. I had a few small towels that would get me through a day with no problem, but the bed seemed a little more complicated. There was a cover on the bed, but I really needed something over me. I can sleep on almost anything, but I don’t really sleep well without something covering me. Even in the hottest of summer nights, I sleep with a sheet on top of me. Anyway, in the big closet in the bedroom, I found another bed covering that appeared to be for one of the extra beds – light but substantive enough to make me sleep easy. It would work.

I made a small dinner with some of the food I brought with me and some that I had bought at the local supermarket after figuring out the bed scheme: some cheese and crackers, some of the tapenade I had bought for my picnic lunch with Priscilla, and a Corona beer that the owner had left in the fridge. The owner is Italian, and lives in his apartment during the months of July and August, like a good European. He dresses well, based on the number of Prada clothes hangers in the closet, and has a pretty good sense of art and color (or is wealthy enough to pay someone to decorate the place). He must have a number of folks come visit him during the summer, because the living room has beds for three people (a sofa with a trundle bed, and a separate single foldout bed that doubles as a large stool). He left behind a number of crackers and cans of tomatoes in the cupboards (he has the same obsession with fiber that most Europeans do based on the cracker and cookie selection) and a number of nice fruit jellies and spreads in the refridgerator. I figured the Corona was a gimmee, and the boxes of crackers all have “consume by” dates, so Martina told me to eat them.

After dinner, I decided that it would be good to wash some of my things. While at the Casino supermarket earlier that evening, I had called Priscilla, needing some immediate guidance on what product I should be buying that would be laundry detergent. I was in the aisle of the store, trying to figure out – along with my dictionary – what the products were in front of me. They had various pictures, but not a lot of language that made it clear to me that they were for clothes! Priscilla told me to look for two name brands, neither of which was to be found in the shelves in front of me. I wondered if they were just out of it? Hard to believe (but Priscilla tells me later, this is not uncommon. Stocking so that the shelves always have what the consumer wants is not the highest priority for most supermarkets, is her experience). I finally buy something that has a baby on it, clutching a towel. At least I know it is for towels, I say to myself. At worst, it will make my clothes smell nice, Priscilla texts me on my way home.

So, I am standing in front of the clothes washer (machine a laver), trying to understand what “Programme” I should use on the dial. It’s a small appliance, with a front loading door. An American family with a machine of this size would never stop doing laundry, it’s so small. I have figured out the “demi” button – this will be a half load (I did a load earlier in the week, and frankly, I don’t have that many clothes with me here). The “arête/marche” button is self explanatory. Finally, I choose a “programme” – they are numbered sequentially on a dial from 1 to 15, with 1 though 6 as one “programme”, 7 – 12 next and then 13-15. I decide for some reason to start the dial on 7. It is 7:30 p.m.

I pour liquid in the tray for the soap, even though I am pretty convinced at this point that I have bought fabric softener. I push the “marche” button and the machine begins to percolate, and fill with water. Soon it has begun its swish-swish-swish, followed by seconds of silence, and then a counter swish-swish-swish. This activity goes on for some time. I putter around the place, putting my things away, watching a little French TV on my television (I think I get the traditional five stations – shown on 10 different channels). I had done my wash at Christiane’s after a week; I learned that her machine took almost two hours (!!) to complete its cycle. So I was expecting this machine to be similar; let’s say I knew not to expect that it would be complete in 30 minutes, like my machine in my condo.

By 8:30, I am wondering if the machine will ever go into spin, it looks at this point like I have used the programme for Gentles/Delicates. The machine finally stops. I turn it off. I wait for the door to unlock. I reach in. The clothes are WET! Ackkkk! This is not what I want. No way am I wringing clothes. I resolve to get these clothes spun dry. I click through the Programmes, and see that the first series has a character that may indicate a rinse and spin. I am optimistic. I set the dial, and start the machine again.

It’s 9:30 p.m. I actually saw the machine go through a spin cycle! But then it filled with water again. And started swishing again. I’ve been putting in quite a bit of time in the small galley kitchen, watching this machine do its thing. At one point, I get very nervous that the machine is filling with water, and I may have to get the water out myself. The idea of opening the machine filled with water fills me with dread; I look through the pots and pans in the cupboards over the sink to see if one will fit under the washing machine door and catch water, if necessary. I find a cake pan that will suffice. I walk away, hoping that my anxiety will have been for nought.

It’s 10 p.m., I’m exhausted; it’s been a long day, and this washing machine will not stop. At least it doesn’t look like it will overflow any longer. I am lying down on my bed; hoping that this nightmare will be over soon. At 10:15, the machine stops again. I turn the knob to the last programme available; this HAS to work. I lie down again on my bed and try to fall asleep.

11:30 p.m. I awake from a very light sleep – the apartment is quiet. I lie there for a moment. Should I go see what happened to the machine? Do I want to know? Should I just deal with it in the morning? Can my mind actually fall asleep if I don’t know? What if it’s still filled with water? What will I do?

I get up and go into the kitchen. I turn off the machine and open the door. The clothes have SPUN! Big sigh. I will hang them up to dry in the morning. At least now I can get some sleep.