I have a tendency to assume that every trouble I encounter — no matter how big or how small — has something to do with the fact that I live in a foreign country.
I know that it’s my own decision, that the troubles I encounter here are my own doing. My dad used to make fun of me for making my own life difficult. But as much as I find little things that are irksome, it’s really not all that difficult to live in France, now. I love it, but that’s not all. I’m used to it. I’ve been here for almost 8 years.
Of course, there are some things here that are still difficult — bordering on surreal. A few weeks ago, I had to go to the tax office to get proof that I had declared my taxes, a form I’d need for my application to renew my visa. After asking very nicely at the front desk, I was informed that when I sent my declaration, it became property of the French government, and so I couldn’t have any proof.
After a bit of arguing, I was told that if I called and asked very nicely (emphasis was put on the fact that I had to ask nicely… I can’t say I was surprised), I might be able to get some sort of signed, stamped proof. The issue wasn’t the phone call, which I dislike but would have been willing to do. The issue was that I was being asked to make a phone call to a man working in the exact building in which I was standing… behind a closed door right next to me.
I got the form (stamped and signed — I checked) and a story. If I’ve gotten little else from the French bureaucratic system, it’s stories.
But those little blips are few and far between, now. Most of my day goes about in the same way that the days of my friends and colleagues do. I don’t really notice the things that may seem strange or odd or different here as much as I used to. I think American things might seem stranger to me.
And what’s more, just as many things that happen in the day-to-day don’t fall into a nationality-centered category… they just are, and I couldn’t tell you which residents of which countries experience them.
Case in point: a recent conversation with The Country Boy. I told him that I hadn’t gone to the gym after work because I was having a good hair day. After years of speaking a combination of both languages, we’ve recently grown comfortable with each of us speaking our own language and offering translations and explanations as needed. When he cast a confused glance my way, I armed myself with translation, chalking it up to one of many lost in translation moments, when I realized…
What boy, American or French (I’m not including Parisians — they’re a different breed) would have any idea what a good hair day is?
Tomato, Roasted Onion, Corn and Tuna Salade Composée (serves 4)
1 lb. potatoes
10 small red onions
1 lb. tomatoes
3 ears corn, cooked and cut from the cob
8 oz. canned tuna
extra-virgin olive oil
Place the potatoes, skin-on, in a pot of cold water. Bring it up to a boil and season with salt. Cook for 20 minutes.
Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Halve the onions, toss with olive oil, and roast for 20 minutes, tossing once as they cook. Remove when caramelized. Allow both the potatoes and onions to cool slightly.
Cut the tomatoes into eighths. Drain the tuna. Assemble the salad by cutting the potatoes into coins and lining them at the bottom of the bowl. Top with the corn. Surround with the tomato slices. Drizzle with olive oil.
Mound the tuna in the center of the dish and drizzle with more olive oil. Sprinkle with salt and pepper. Chiffonnade the basil and sprinkle over the top of the salad. Serve.