50 shades of French bureaucracy – the follow-up

March 10, 2015March 11, 2015 / catinmythroat / 6 Comments

One of the least beautiful places in France: a Prefecture waiting room

“Non, non,” the Immigration Overlord warned, eyes widening as I began to stack up folders of paperwork in front of her.

Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. One pile for each member of the family.

“Non, non, non, non, non.”

Her palms flew up and her head shook from side to side as she took in the volume of work I was dumping on her desk.

“Oh là là! What is all this? It’s for a carte de sejour renewal? But it’s too many papers!”

She prodded my impeccably collated, impossibly complicated application documents as if they were coated in anthrax.

This was not starting well. Continue reading →

50 shades of French bureaucracy

March 10, 2015March 10, 2015 / catinmythroat / 7 Comments

It’s exactly one year since we left New Zealand on this big adventure.

Tomorrow we celebrate by heading to the local prefecture to see about extending our visitors’ visas.

Working through the bureaucracy will be an exercise in masochism.

France has seduced us with her wit, charm and good looks – and now that we’re gagging for more, the old madame is going to make us pay. Continue reading →

Girls’ week in Provence – a tasting menu

March 1, 2015March 10, 2015 / catinmythroat / 9 Comments

The girlfriends are coming.

They’ve got leave passes from real life to sneak over to the other side of the world for a couple of weeks.

An itinerary seems in order but I don’t want to be bossy, so I’m working on a pick’n’mix. Continue reading →

It’s not always sunny in Provence

February 17, 2015February 17, 2015 / catinmythroat / Leave a comment

Sometimes it rains.

Sometimes there is work to be done.

Sometimes there is traffic.

Sometimes the food is average.

Continue reading →

Tears and pears in the French Alps

February 6, 2015February 7, 2015 / catinmythroat / 13 Comments

“Madame, vous aller pleurer d’émotion.” [Madame, you are going to weep from emotion.]

The Monsieur paused for dramatic effect then presented a tiny cup of amour de poire, a delicate pear wine produced high up in the French Alps, a cork’s throw from the Italian border.

I knew it was a good idea to step into this curious little shop.

“You’ll get stuck in there,” Sabbatical Man had warned, eyeing the many signs at the door that suggested an eccentricity of proprietorship and eclecticism of wares that would make a quick browse impossible. Continue reading →