I Can't Find A Title

Maybe because no title is good enough. I don't know. I swore i would at least try not to ramble on and on about my brother being gone. And in all fairness, i think i've been pretty good so far. I don't bother people with my pain and my loss, i don't mention him often on social medias either and in all honesty, i try not to think about him too much either. Needless to say i fail miserably on that last point. I think about him every single day that passes. And when i haven't, there is always something to remind me of him. A song, a smell, a clothe, a detail on the street that he would have noticed and loved, anything.

I don't know if you ever get over the loss of a brother. You learn to live without but you don't get over it. It's just not possible. It's like a piece of you is missing. I've been through thousands of pictures, old ones of when he was just a little boy, recent ones i found on his computer, ones of vacations he took to come visit me in Mexico. I even have one of the rare picture of us two together on my computer's wallpaper. And sometimes, i stare at my screen and this massive anguish crawls into me, and this dreadful thought, this horrendous reality hits me: he is gone forever. I will never hear him talk, or laugh again, i will never hold him again, i will never see him again. And that's when this gigantic oppressive ball is building in my throat and when the floor disappears under my feet. It's a pain no word can ever describe accurately. It's a hole that nobody nor anything will ever fill up.

Every time i visit my parents, every time i see his pictures spread all over the house also reminds me that i don't have a brother anymore. Well, i do. He was, is and always will be my brother. But he's not with us anymore. Nor will he ever be again.

I miss him more than i can tell. As i said earlier, i don't want to bother people with it but sometimes, it's a fact that's so overwhelming that it overflows me and i don't know what to say, or do. In those awful moments, i feel completely lost. And i wish i could understand why was he taken from us so soon. Why couldn't he meet the wonderful man i share my life with, why couldn't we spend another family Christmas, why won't he ever meet the children i might have one day, or why can't i be his kids's favorite crazy aunt.

Life is a bitch. And even though i do have this amazing capacity to see the good in every situation i come across with, sometimes, i just don't get it. I know it might sound childish but i just wish he was still here with me.

I Weight 72kg

Trust me, it came as a shock for me too. I was sick last week so i went to the doctor and naturally, he asked me to step on the scale. And BAM, 72kg. My first thought was, his scale is completly wrong, it can't be accurate, no freaking way i weight 10 more kilos than 6 months ago. And since i was visiting my parents just a few days later, i hopped on their scale, just to check (up until that week end, i didn't own a scale). And BAM, 71.3kg. On their other scale, 71kg. Right out of bed, with no food in and after the mandatory morning bathroom stop.

HOLY. MOTHER. FUCKING. CRAP.

It's just a number, it's just a number, it's just a number. I have to convince myself it's just a number. Cuz end of it all, it is. Just a number i mean.

My mother is OBSESSED with my weight. I've never been thin, never been fat either. I'm just naturally well built, with meat on my bones and a fair enthousiasm when it comes to eating. But i do sports. And honestly, i do quite a fair bit every week. I do 30 minutes of crossfit 5 days a week and i walk a good 15km (if not more) distributing all my publicity. I eat well, and by well i mean well-balanced, i don't drink sodas, i don't eat junk food, i have the occasional piece of chocolate, i don't put too much sugar in my tea and i don't eat like a dog. But still, my mom thinks i need to watch my weight.

Well you know what? This is the heaviest i've ever been in my entire life. Yet, this is the best i've felt in my entire life. I do have a little belly i could do without but i've never been stuckier, firmer and fitter than i am right now. I feel good in my own skin, i like what i see in the mirror, i'm happier than i've been in a long time and i have more energy than most people half my age. So yeah, the number on the scale is just that: a number. And i'm not gonna let anybody making me believe i need to go on a diet cuz i don't. Not even you, mother.

Now if you allow me, i'll go indulge on a piece of chocolate :P

I Can Hear My Neighbor Pee

I know, i know, that doesn't sound glamour whatsoever but it is unfortunately true. The studio I live in is so freaking small and the walls are so freaking thin that I can pretty much hear anything that is going on in the building. OK, maybe i'm exaggerating a little. But just a little.

I have quite a few neighbors since there are 20 studios in the building. Let's not talk about the dirt-bag in 42, just mentioning it might give my man rashes. But the girl just above us uses heels to walk (and it's annoying you have no idea) and I can hear when she pees. It's kinda gross and I thought, ok, let's just imagining that she's doing the dishes but the water falling in the sink does not make the same sound as the piss hitting the water in the toilet! On the plus side, I can't hear when she poops, thank God.

The neighbor just next to her, so not directly above us, is apparently a gamer. We can hear it cursing at his computer when he loses, especially in the evening. He drives this big ass jeep/pick up truck and drives in the parking lot like a maniac.

We also have an old man who makes me sad every time I see him because it's a residence for students mainly and he doesn't seem to have friends, a single dad who gets his kid once every fortnight, a slightly handicapped guy who always wants to sell me his furniture (especially stuff I so don't have room for like a couch and a washing machine (no idea how he fits it in his studio!!)), a couple of “doudou” as we call them (they're from Martinique), a guy who must be playing soccer since I always seem him with a big sports bag and a ball, a student whose mom and younger sister come visit on the week end, a guy with a scooter that he locks on the bar of his window, a cherry tree, a stray cat, an occasional hedgehog and magpies my cats are dying to catch (I don't think they've ever seen a bird that big).

All in all, a pleasant place to live, if it wasn't for that ass in 42 and for the 20 square meter we live in.

Massive Ranting (And Yes I Feel Good About It)

I was thinking about writing this post in French, for a change, but i realized that the people who it is aimed at probably don't read anyway.

There's this big controversy in France about the national soccer team and the national anthem. To make one long story short, they don't sing it. Apparently, only the soccer players don't sing. When you watch a rugby match, everybody in the team sings it. Well, I normally don't talk politics, economics or religion in this blog, let alone on Facebook. I don't think it's the place for it. But again, it's my humble point of view. But I've have it up to here to hear people complaining about it so I wanted to use my blog to express what I think about it all. OK, fine, to complain about it all ;)

I don't care if people sing or not the national anthem. Well, I do care a little. You're representing a country and the least of the courtesy should be to sing its anthem. If not, if you don't feel like you belong to that country, well, you shouldn't make the team in the first place. But a national team is made of people who are BORN in that country. Whereas you're from different origins is not the point. You're born in France, you're French, period. When I was in Mexico, I always said I felt I was born in the wrong country and I felt more Mexican than French. But that didn't make me Mexican. And when France played against Mexico, I felt Frencher than I ever felt before. And I sang the anthem.

But that's not the point i'm trying to make here.

People complain about those players (we're talking football here, I mean football soccer) who earns big bucks and don't honor the country they're playing for. To begin with, 80% (if not more) of the French team is made of players from foreign origins (and mostly people who are the grand-children of people from countries France colonized in the past). And when you live in a country your ancestors are not from, you often build up a strong bond with that other culture of yours. But again, that's not the point i'm trying to make.

If you're tired of seeing those dumb asses millionaires representing poorly your country and your values, then stop promoting it. Stop watching the games on TV, stop going to the stadium, stop buying jerseys for hundreds of euros, stop idolizing people who are incapable of putting two sentences together properly, stop treating them like gods. You're upset they don't sing? You're upset they pretend to be injured on the field to get a fault towards the other team? You're upset they make 10 times a year what you'll make in a lifetime working? Then STOP PROMOTING IT.

Go watch your local team instead. Go cheer on people who still do it for the fun of it and not for the money. Go take your children with you and show them what sport spirit really is about. National soccer teams (and i'm talking about the French one but I guess it also applies to other countries) are not the best example you can set. It's a bad-to-the-bone rotten mafia. Is that what you want your children to grow up with? Thinking that if you're famous enough and rich enough, you can get away with it all? It's the path of a handful of people in this world. The vast majority of us will remain the small people, with humble incomes. And sadly, we're the ones who pay for these moron's astronomical wages. You can do something about it. But ranting about it on Facebook and the social media won't do the trick.

Shut Up And Give Whatever You Got

I have been crossfitting for just over 4 months now and even though I saw the changes on my back and arms spectacularly quickly at first, the changes I was so looking forward to see on my hips, thighs and stomach have yet to show up. I have now reached a plateau and I don't know how long it's gonna take for me to see any more changes. Obviously, going to my parents or my in-laws every second week-end is NOT helping (they tend to stuff ourselves every time with gigantic but delicious meals!!)

What I really like about crossfit is that it's not a competition. Well, it is for some people but for normal folks like myself it's not. Well, it is. But not against someone. It's against my own worst enemy, a.k.a. MYSELF. It's about finding the time but above all, the WILL to do it and outdoing yourself. And that, for me, is the hardest.

My man is also my coach. And let's be honest, if he hadn't pushed me at the beginning, I would never have gone that far. I don't need his cheering to get off of the couch anymore. He still does my program but I find my own willpower to get in my outfit and give my all. I believe that's the hardest to deal with. Finding the willpower to START. Once you've began, it goes down easily. Well, some days more than others!!!

My motivation is the picture I built of what i'll look like some time in a (close I hope) future. And THIS, is gonna be me soon:

When I do squats, I picture this:

When I do abs, I picture this:

When I do push ups or bench press, I picture this:

Trust me. It's a hell of a motivational silent speech.

But let's be honest. I do it 5 days a week for a maximum of 30 minutes a day. And most of the time, my actual workout doesn't go over 15 minutes. The rest is for stretching. I've done it in the morning, I've done it in the evening. Sometimes, I had to DRAG myself out of my comfy sweat pants or PJ to do it but I've always done it. And I've never regretted it. Even the days I was feeling heavy, or sick, or exhausted, I did my workout. Slowly but surely. The competition is only against yourself. I've read before that it takes 4 weeks for you to notice your body changing and 12 weeks for the rest of the world to notice it. I'd say it takes 4 weeks to get used to it and 12 weeks to get addicted to it. After 17 weeks, I don't question it anymore, I do it because it has to be done.

And I love every second of it.

There's A Monster In The House

My cats are scared of the vacuum  And when I say “scared”, I mean TERRIFIED. The second I pull it out of the storage closet, all 3 of them vanish in less time than I need to actually write it. It's like the vacuum was this gigantic 3 headed cat-eater monster spiting fire from every single one of its pore, with teeth the size of a samurai saber and blood-injected eyes.

The funny thing is that I don't even have to turn it on. So I think it's actually more the actual object than the noise it makes. Obviously, the noise does NOTHING to help them accept it any better. It's loud. It's high-pitched. It sucks stuff up it's trunk. And to top it all, it has wheels.

As I probably mentioned before, I live in a 20m2 flat so needless to say, vacuuming doesn't take a lot of time. But it seems to be way too long for them!

So today, as it was vacuum cleaning day, I (as expected) witnessed my three cats running into hiding (normally, all 3 of them under the couch) the nanosecond they saw me grab the evil-reincarnated object. Which, in a way, is cool. I don't have to push them or move them to vacuum under where they're sitting or laying. But what I always find hilarious, is when I'm done with the hoovering. They always wait a few minutes, just in case I turn it on again (you know we all do it, because you see a spiderweb on the ceiling, or the pair of shoes you dropped on the floor left a stain of dirt on the floor, or whatever crap you didn't see the first time and you see so much better now that you've almost put it all away!!). Once they realize that you're finally done with that thing from hell, it's like they have this silent cat reunion to decide which one of them is going to be sent as a scout to check if all danger is now gone. In our family, generally it's the oldest who gets stuck with it, the biggest, oldest, fattest cat of them 3: Psycha. And I must say, she's quite THE scout.

She pulls out of behind the couch, slowly, checking from afar and then very very slowly, starts to go around things and sniffs everything she normally hangs by, just like if she wanted to make sure the things she knows and the smells she's used to are still there, intact (probably not but hey, I do have to clean from time to time!). It's only when she's done patrolling that the other 2 dare to show the tip of their nose. And they do just like her: sniffing everything around, investigating like we've just made it to a new place.

Needless to say I can't wait for the day we'll have a garden and the day they'll see (and experience) snow the first time. I promise i'll videotape them!

I Work With Buggers

By buggers i mean i'm working with kids. Yes, me. With kids. Between 8 and 10 yrs old and sometimes, with younger shrimps as well. What do i do? I supervise them on their lunch break – which is divided into 2 parts: playing time and lunch time. At the canteen.

I've applied for the job not too convinced i'd get it but the City is looking for staff like this so badly (they told us they needed about 300 people) that they didn't have much choice than to take all the candidates who actually showed up. And that included myself.

I don't mind kids. Well, let's put it this way: i don't mind kids when i don't have to take care of them. So me being responsible for a dozen of crazy hyper active 9 years old can seem totally surreal. And trust me, it is.

I've only done 2 days so far. It's 1h30 only and 4 days a week. So i'm not gonna break my back over it.

Kids that age are fun. They want to show you what they can do. I already had a hula hoop show (i was actually quite impressed)!! But what kinda shocked me a little is the attitude of the other women doing what i do. Yes, cuz we're 6. Since we cannot legally be responsible for more than 12 kids each, there are 6 of us. And i'm thinking i'm either being overcool when it comes to authority or they may be some sadistic power-tripper bitches.

I understand kids can be draining. And tiring. And that they run and scream and shout and laugh loud and cry and shit but i mean they're not monsters and i don't think you get much by screaming at them the way they do. Or make them stay perfectly still in silence before they could get out to play after lunch and before class.

That's my point of view anyway. I refuse to be a sadistic bitch. I'll be their favorite. And even if they put hair in the waterjug again, i'll just tell them it's disgusting, go clean it and change the water and i'll move on with it all. In the meanwhile, i get some serious hula hoop training to do if i don't want to be laughed at again tomorrow!

My Man Makes Me Tea

I started drinking tea when i was 20 and god knows i drink a lot of it. One liter in the morning and then some in the afternoon, depending. When i used to be in Mexico, it had become a ritual with a colleague of mine and myself to drink cups and cups of tea all day long. He couldn't handle drinking coffee any longer and i was only too happy to oblige and accompany him on his tea drinking.

When i was a student, i always enjoyed drinking tea in the afternoon, or before going to bed. Even when i was younger, it was part of a ritual at my aunt's, to have a cup of chamomile tea before bed.

So tea goes a long way back in my life.

And a few days ago, my man offered me tea after dinner. I was so pleasantly surprised that i said yes, of course. There is something sacred about drinking tea. Even if it's in a Homer Simpson mug :/

He's been making me tea after every meal ever since. It's been 3 days already. I feel special. I know it sounds stupid but i really do. Not only is he cooking for me every single day of the week (lunch and dinner) but he's making me breakfast as well and now, he's also making me tea.

One thing is certain ... he's a keeper.

I Am Your Mailbox's Worst Nightmare

I am working! YAY.

I haven't been working since i got back to France. Which means i've been one of the many unemployed people who is living on the state's welfare. Don't take me wrong, I don't enjoy it. Yes I receive money to do nothing at all all day but it's far from what i'm expecting from life.

Being unemployed is depressing. You turn around in your living room (in my situation, in the 20m2 studio we live in), you read (a lot), watch stuff on the computer (even more than reading), you play Candy Crush or Angry Birds and there goes your entire day. Next morning, you press repeat. Trust me, you'd kill yourself for less than that.

So one night, I was browsing the internet for ideas and job opportunities. I saw that they were looking for people to distribute commercial flyers into people's mailboxes. In a few words, they were looking for people to contaminate people's mailboxes. And they were going to pay me for that. Badly but still. It's 10hrs worth of work that would get me just a notch more than what I get from the government.

So I sent back my application, got the interview on Monday and started the job on Tuesday. I had 709 sets of 15 flyers to put together and then distribute before Wednesday evening.

I know it sounds easy. Trust me. It ain't. It's hard. Not Einstein hard. It's physically demanding. At least, a lot more than I expected. Standing in front of a table an entire day to gather all this paperwork together in one set. It's repetitive. It's a bit like a cashier at a supermarket. You're doing the same gesture over and over and over again. I was stiffed the following day you have no idea.

I had 468 kilos of flyers to move. And god knows you're moving them A LOT.

From the pallet to the table (1), from the table to the kart (2), from the kart to the car (3) from the car to the kart (4) from the kart to the mailbox (5), FIVE time (and that's without counting when you're dragging the kart from mailbox to mailbox adding so many kilometres walking) Which makes a grand total of 2 tons and 340 kilos. And I “only” had 709 mailboxes. Some areas have 1500!!

Talking about working out.

So next time you get these damn commercial flyers in your mailbox, think about that poor boy or girl who had to drag his/her fully loaded kart all the way to your mailbox. And if you really don't want any, put the “stop pub” sticker on your mailbox instead of spitting at our face. It's not an easy job. But for some dark reason, i kinda enjoy it ...

French Are Good

Unfortunately, it's not always a good thing. To be good i mean.

So i've been back for almost 4 months now and i've hence had my share of French people. Some cool ones, some unbearable ones, some quiet ones and some extrovert ones but all it all, a good slice of the French population. And even though it was quite something to readapt to all the rules and laws that you live under as well as speaking French all the damn time, the transition went quite smoothly.

However, there is something i kinda knew already but honestly didn't think it was THAT bad ... OMFG how much French people complain. They complain all the freaking time about absolutely EVERYTHING. It's either the weather, the prices, the economy, the quality of the food, the waiting time, the traffic, other people, EVERY-SINGLE-THING on the face of the Earth.

How can you live this way? How can you find the will the get up in the morning? Is their coffee not warm enough as well? The bread not crusty enough? The jam too sweet? The more you complain, the more you find stuff to complain about.

I don't have a job, i live in a 20 square meter studio with my man and 3 cats and without enough money to move to a bigger place, i freeze my ass off in my own country, i don't have my own friends and not much of a social life and yet, i find a reason to smile and be happy every single day of the week.

Maybe it's because i have a great man. Maybe it's because my cats are awesome. Maybe it's because there IS a reason to smile and be happy every single day. But when you focus on the good, when you see that every single little detail around you can be a reason to smile or be pleased, then and then only, will you be as happy as i am.

Some think i'm an utopist, others think i'm over-optimistic. I'm not. I'm just gifted at seeing the good in every situation. Even the darkest ones. So to all my fellow-countrymen, stop complaining all the time. As long as you have a roof over your head, something to eat in your plate, a good health and as a little plus, some friends or family to hang out with, what difference does it make if you wait 3 minutes or 8 minutes in line at the bakery and get a baguette instead of a loaf of bread.

Life is good :)

The Famous French Administrations

I'm calling them “famous” after all I've heard about them. After so many years away from France, needless to say I had quite a fair amount of administrative update to do. And all my friends had been unanimous: you are going to go through HELL.

It's not that I had to do a lot of stuff, but all of it depended on a different administration: a new ID, a new social security card, change the paperwork of the car I was inheriting from my mom, update my professional status (and at the same time add my name to the already long list of unemployed people in France) and go to set up my unemployment allowance.

Listening to everybody, this would take me at least a month. And my dad to add that I wouldn't be able to find a parking spot anywhere close by so i'll have to walk miles!

I called the city hall to ask what I needed to apply for a new ID (mine had expired some 15 years prior LOL). I brought them what they needed, was attended in 5 minutes, had my digital prints taken, they told me I would take 2 months to get it, I received it 2 weeks later.

I then called the Social Security offices for the same motive: the list of paperwork I needed to apply for my new SS card. I drove the 20 km I had to, found a parking spot right in front of the office, took a number, and sat down in the waiting room. Expecting to wait a good half hour, I started to organize my papers so spread myself all over, and was about to take my book out when my number was called. I hadn't been sitting for more than 2 minutes. The guy checked my stuff, said everything was in order, told me it'd take about 2 months to get my card. I received it 10 days later.

And again with the Prefecture for my car's paperwork. I was in and out there in about 10 minutes and got my “carte grise” (that's the car's ID) less than a week later (and my new licence plate on the spot …)

The unemployment office is called Pole Emploi in France so i'll call it PE from now on. Went there, they told me i'd have to do it all over again once i've moved to another region (as I was planning to) so I hold it up for when i'd be settled down. Called for an appointment, got the operator in 2 minutes, an appointment for the following week, met my counselor  found out I could get an allowance for being a French citizen coming back from abroad, had a list of paperwork to bring back for that. When I got back a few days later with all they needed, I was in and out in less than 5 minutes.

And last but not least, went to set up my unemployment allowance (I never understood why it's not at PE that you do that but you know, why simple when things can be complicated?). Again, list of papers to bring back and a form to fill up. Went back a few days later, and again, was in and out in less than 5 minutes.

So I must say, i'm either extremely lucky or French admins are not that bad... I normally don't believe in luck. But maybe I should buy a lottery ticket! LOL

This Is The End

My brother died on September 2^nd 2012. I've said it out loud so many times to try to find out a meaning out of it. It didn't work. On June 25^th, both my parents and I had a meeting with the notary in charge of his inheritance. This was going to be the last time we'd meet with her. The time we'd put a final point (and signature) to it all. The time we'd seal this sad business once and for all.

There are no word that can describe how it feels to hear the notary stating out loud that Mr C. had died that day at that place at that time and that, in front of both his parents, Mr and Mrs C. and his sister, Ms C., all his belongings, goods and properties that are listed hereafter now belong to his immediate relatives here present under the following proportions (50% for the parents and 50% for the sibblings) and that the inheritance fee to be paid is for a grand total of that many thousand euros.

All of the sudden it was real. All of the sudden, what used to be HIS was now OURS. All of the sudden, he was gone.

Forever.

This is the end, beautiful friend ... May you rest in peace.

Unreal

France.

Countryside.

Early June.

7:30am.

Coming down from my bedroom to have breakfast.

That's when my dad told me

- I lit up a fire in the fireplace, just for you

- Cooooool, love it in the morning

- Cuz the outside temperature was only one digit ...

O_o

I checked.

It was 8ºC.

Seriously? Is it even REAL?

The Epic Return Home

As most of you know already, I was returning back to my homeland of France after 11 years living in Mexico and a grand total of 13 years abroad. Quite a move! And to add a little bit of saucy extraordinaire, I was going to travel back with my 3 beloved cats. My mom jumped to the roof when I told her that. And I quietly explained her that it wasn't a question, it was a fact: I was taking my cats with me. I rescued these cats it's not to abandon them again. It's not like a pair of shoes you can leave behind.

Don't go believing that travelling from Mexico to France with 3 cats is an easy task. I'd be lying if I said it was complicated but let's settle it by saying it's tedious. Fortunately, I had the inmense fortune of having a friend who did just that a few years prior and his help had been priceless.

To sum it all up, there are more paperwork to be done than what I imagine you need when you want to transport a transplantable liver to the other end of the country.

So I did it all. I chipped my 3 cats, I had my vet issue a medical certificate for each one of them, had the zoosanitary services of the airport inspect them all to check their health, got a cage for each, bought special travel nappies and paid for their flight to Paris …

After thinking about it long and straight, I finally decided to have them sedated just before I went to the airport. My vet told me the sedative would last between 6 and 8 hours which meant that with my 7 hours waiting time in Mexico City, they'd be up, alive and kicking by the time they'd be boarding our plane to France. Well at least they'd have some drugged up time to kill some of the super long waiting time in D.F.

I couldn't believe how heart-breaking it was for me to see them stuck in their tiny cages knowing they'd be stuck in there for a good 28 hours. I was more worried for their well being then my own and I naturally cried my eyes out at the moment I gave them away at the checking counter. I was glad for my friend's support and thought that it would have been quite another story had I been alone at the airport on my last day in Mexico.

I had been informed that I had to go through the zoosanitary services in Mexico City as well since they were the ones who would deliver me the other St Graal I was needing: the “importation” papers for the French customs. My cats were registered, just like my lugages, all the way to Paris but I had to get them back to present them to the airport vet. And trust me, getting lugages back at your stopover when they're registered all the way to your final destination is quite something. I was actually glad for the 7 hours transit time I had between my 2 flights since it took me a good 2.5 hours to do it all.

And I had to check them in … AGAIN. The guy at the counter asked me if, considering the huge time left before my flight, I wanted to keep them with me for a few hours and I decided against. As I said earlier, seeing them in there was heartbreaking, and if they'd awaken while I had them it would have been worse to hear them cry. So I took them back as soon as the paperwork was done.

I don't know how I managed to sleep at all in the plane considering my latent anxiety about my cat's well-being and my neighbor snoring like you've never heard before but I did. CDG's airport is worse than I remembered, I arrived at terminal E, had to travel to terminal D than back to E to get my suitcases (don't ask, I still don't get it) and the only thing I was worried about was my cats. I didn't care if my suitcases hadn't make it but I wanted to see my cats so bad.

I heard them arriving on the bulky lugages delivery mat since they were all meowing on top of their lungs. They stopped the second they saw me. I couldn't do it the mexican way with 3 suitcases and 3 cages (meaning all piled up on top of one kart) so one of the airport's officials helped me out. Is there someone to help you? He asked. I said yes.

Nobody from Customs asked for my papers even though I passed right in front of 5 of them chitchatting. My friend was right … There was no need to worry.

All was good.

All is good.

Allow Me A Little Laugh

As you most likely know by now, i will soon be moving back to France. And even though some of you might find it crazy, i am very much planning on bringing my 3 cats with me. Yep, you read right, i'm taking my 3 Mexican stray cats back to France with me. No, we won't be living in Paaaariiiiiis like everybody is telling me here but yes, we'll land there so they will be able to actually "say" that they've been to Paris. LOL. What can i say, i have posh cats.

Things are getting sorted out and arranged and set up for me to go back at the end of this month but since i want to surprise my parents, i wont mention any date here. Only a handful of people actually know my departure date and i intent it to remains this way for as long as i can. 

Moving from Mexico to France with 3 cats obviously implies some paperwork to be done well in advance and thanks to a good friend of mine who moved from Mexico to Italy via Paris with his 4 cats, i believe i'm actually up to speed with all the administrative shit involved. The only thing that was left to be done was to actually purchase my plane ticket. Which i did. Today. YAY.

I did it online. And then i called the hotline cuz i was having issues with my payment (because it's a French credit card and we're in Mexico, i never understood but anyways, i'll figure it out someday). And once i had my confirmation code, i asked the lady i was talking to about my cats. And that's when she dropped a bomb: "you can only take 2 animals with you".

Say what?

Taking 2 of my 3 cats was not even an option. I mean you don't ask someone who travels if he's gonna take his left leg or his right leg to go on holiday, no, he's gonna take both. Well i'm gonna take'em all.

Long story short, the lady at the Aeromexico counter at the airport kept on bringing on the good news to me:

- yes you can take all 3 cats with you

- yes you can prepay for it now (and get a $20US discount on each)

- yes you can prepay your extra bag as well (and get another $20US discount)

- the maximum weight allowed for your suitcase is 32kg (and not 23 as i had read before - i'm repacking first thing tomorrow and i'm gonna STUFF another 8 kg in each of my suitcases!) and your second suitcase can also weight 32kg (rhaaa, i can carry up to 64kg with me)

- both your cats and your suitcases are set up all the way to Paris

- i'm changing you for a slightly later flight so you're now only flying with Aeromexico instead of having the second flight with Air France (hence i don't have to pay twice for the cats, twice for the excess luggage, and more important i don't have to collect my bags or cats in terminal 2 and then get my ass, my 64kg of crap and my 3 cats to terminal 1 and do another check in).

The only setback i'd say is that i have a 7 hours (or so) transit time in Mexico City and that my cats are going to be locked up in their traveling cages for 24 hours straight. 

They are going to HATE me for it. But hey, they're gonna live in France damn it. And i won`t take any of their ungrateful resentment.

I know this is going to be pretty epic. I know i'll feel so much better the second i'll let them out of their cage. But damn, i can't wait to write about it! 

Stay tuned!

Scream and Shout

There is a lion roaring in me. It makes me want to scream from the top of my lungs and shout to the entire world what's happening to me. And what's happening is that i am crazy madly in love. 

So what's stopping me from doing it? Because it's insane to feel this way after such a short amount of time. Because it's insane to feel that deep of a connection with someone I've never even met. Because people will think i'm crazier than i seem at first (not that i really care about what they might thing to be honest). Because they'll try to reason with me and to convince me it's just a crush that will evaporate like a drop of water under the Mexican sun. 

It's not. 

It's so much more than that.

I've been in love before. Many times. But this, goes beyond it all. Just wait and see. I might even spare some details soon ...

PS: i promise i'll try to keep the cheesiness away from this blog. But you know, sometimes, nice stuff happens to me too (not only crazy oh-my-god-how-did-she-land-herself-in-that-mess situations!)

5 de Mayo

It's been 11 years. ELEVEN YEARS. Eleven years that I've been living here in Mexico. I never thought i'd stay this long, i never thought i would ever come to realize that damn, i'm actually going to miss this place.

Me in Mazatlan, early May 2002

11 years ago, i entered Mexico by bus, from Los Angeles, through one of the busiest border city: Tijuana. I was heading South, and i spent my first 22 hours on Mexican territory in a bus, got stopped and the entire bus searched out a few times by armed-up-to-their-eyeballs military men in balaclavas, little did i know back then that this supposed 3rd world country was the place i was going to call home for the next 11 years.

I believe the real date stamped on my passport was May 3rd. But then the IMM (Mexican Immigration Institute) got it wrong and stated that i entered the country on May 5th. And i kinda liked it better.

Me: why is everything closed today?

Taxi driver: because it's May 5th, we celebrate the Battle of Puebla.

Me: what happened during that Battle?

Taxi driver: Mexican army kicked the French army's ass!

*** sigh ***

It was in 1862.

And 140 years later, here i was. Doing my own personal revengeful invasion of Mexico. At the ripe age of 24.

Mexico is nothing like what the medias are showing or saying. It's an amazing country, with amazing people. It's been the place I've called Home for the past 4000+ days. And it would most likely have remained this way wouldn't have life gotten in the way.

My neighbors asked me to make a list of all the things i'll miss when i'm gone. So they can see, through my eyes, what i value most from their country. It's a great idea for a post. I'll work on it soon. We tend to forget what we have and even worse, forget to enjoy what we have while we have it for focusing so much on what we want. Life is short. Every minute counts. 

What i'll miss the most are the people I've met throughout these years and who have been, somehow and somewhat, part of my life and part of the person i have grown into. Realizing that i will probably never see some of them ever again drills a painful hole in my heart.

These 11 years were never planned. But I've came to realize that even the best laid plans go awry. Life is good. It's only just a new beginning :)