Final Payment to President Chimpy McShithead of TX

That's what I wrote in the "For" field of my check made out to the United States Treasury.

I may be living in France now, but I still pay US taxes. And today is that highest of high holy days, Tax Day.

While I used to look forward to doing my taxes - I typically got a big refund - this year I was nervous. I'd waited 'til the last moment to do it, and as has been the trend for the middle class under President Chimpy McShithead of Texas, I've been owing money to the government lately. On top of the costs of relocating to another country, there's the whole pathetic exchange rate to deal with. (Today's glorious rate: €1=$1.58) So I'm loathe to spend any more money than is necessary.

And wouldn't you know it? I owe. As does Alannah. Luckily, our total owed is reasonable, so it wasn't too painful. In fact, the check I cut is easily less than the price of a decent dinner for two in Paris.

But I'll bitch and moan about having to pay even pennies to a government that provides me with no healthcare, crap for education, a joke of a transit system, and a blunder of a war.

Sure, around this time next year, I'll be forking out thousands of euros (they don't withhold taxes from paychecks here) in one painful chunk, at a percentage likely outstripping anything I paid in the US, even under a high bracket during a Democratic presidency. (Let's just say I was making - and paying - bank in those "golden" years under President Slippery McSkeevy of Arkansas.)

In exchange, though, I'll be enjoying full health coverage, dirt cheap education, subsidized and plentiful transit, more public art than you can shake a stick at, and best of all, regulated bread prices. In fact, a hot, fresh, artisanal baguette - 250 grams of flaky, chewy goodness - costs less than one international stamp to mail in your blood money.

I'm so glad I'm someplace where they've got their priorities straight!

Poppin' Fresh

You see it pretty often every day.

People walking down the street, holding a baguette with a little square of paper, fresh from the boulangerie.

Occasionally, you'll see that the baguette has the end torn off, or a bite taken out of it.

"How uncouth!" I always think. "Couldn't they just wait 'til they got home? Or wherever?" The French are typically not eat-on-the-go types, so seeing this always made me wonder what was up.

After work tonight, I went to a nearby photo booth to get some passport pictures taken. One of the infinite number of things I need for my government dossier. I never thought I'd have my own dossier. It sounds so... James Bond. In it will be certified translated versions of my birth certificate, marriage certificate, Bachelor's degree in anthropology, US naturalization certificate, curriculum vitae (that's Latin for the French word resumé) in English and in French. And probably some records of me having downloaded a Moby album on Napster back in the 90's. Soon, the French government will have a dossier folder full of my life's milestones. And several horribly-lit, unflattering digital prints of me with a big zit drying up on the bridge of my nose.

It's all very important, official stuff. Without jumping through all these hoops, I won't be able to get a Carte de Sejour, and without that, I won't be able to have a bank account, a phone line in my name, and - most importantly - a paycheck in Euros.

But with the photos in hand, this was all secondary on my mind. After all, it's close to dinner time, which means I need bread.

I went to the nearest boulangerie, which I've determined of the three less than a minute from my apartment, is the absolute best. The line out the door, I believe, proved me right. Not getting too creative, I simply ordered a baguette, ponied up my 90 cents, and awaited my big stick of daily nourishment.

The lady went through the motions and proceeded to hand me one that was fresh from the oven. Hot, crunchy on the outside, but oh so soft and supple under the most gentle squeeze. I held in my hands the freshest baguette I've had yet.

And as I walked the half block back to my house, felt the immediate compulsion to tear off one end and munch it.

MmmmMmmMmmm....

Metamorphosis

I've been here in France for a week and a half now. While I'll never be French, my uncanny ability to adapt, acculturate, and eventually assimilate is starting to rear its ugly head. At least, in my dining habits. Not only have I started to visibly lose weight (Soon I'll be thin enough to wear a horizontally striped shirt! Or not...) but my way of eating is becoming noticeably more French. So I present to you...

Top 10 Signs You're Becoming French - For Better or Worse
10. You're not in a rush anymore. Deadlines at work still exist, of course... in name.
9. You can't imagine not starting the day with coffee. Nor not having one as soon as you get to work. Nor not having one at lunch. Nor not having one after dinner - you know, just before bedtime.
8. Things like foie gras, sweetbreads, and tripe sausage sound delightful. The thought of a mocha at Starbucks makes you want to gag.
7. You now find it perfectly acceptable to have a cocktail or aperitif before dinner, a glass or two of wine with dinner, and maybe even a digestif afterward. This is on top of your after-work beer. Every night. (Oh, who am I fooling? I always thought that was fine.)
6. Before answering a question, you do that pffffffffbrrrr puff thing with your mouth. (For reference, watch L'Auberge Espagnole)
5. You can clean off a rack of ribs with a knife and fork, tines always down.
4. You don't think "Socialism" is a dirty word.
3. You only start thinking about what's for dinner after 8:00pm.
2. Once you do start thinking about it, you feel that an omelette is a perfectly acceptable dinner.
1. You get the things out to make that omelette, and you go into a complete state of panic over the fact that you have no bread.

Numbers 3, 2, and 1 happened to me tonight. I happily thought, "Yes! I will make a delicious, light, thin omelette, perfectly accompanied by a Côtes du Rhône, and... HOLY HELL! I DON'T HAVE BREAD!!!" The horrific thought of having dinner without bread invaded my mind. The even more horrific thought of not having any for breakfast nearly stunned me. I looked at the clock: 8:12. The boulangerie I've been going to is most certainly closed. My only choice is probably stuff that may as well be a week old from Monoprix. Good god, what do I do? What do I do?

I quickly put on my coat, hat and boots and ran down two flights of stairs as though the building was on fire. "Maybe that one other bakery," I thought, "the one that's closing shop whenever I walk by. Maybe if I tap on the window they'll sell me something." Within about 3 seconds, I was in front of the boulangerie, and what do you know? The sign says they don't close 'til 21h00! (That's 9:00pm for you people not down with the 24-hour clock.)

I threw down a coin and got the very last baguette, much to the chagrin of the people behind me. If they wanted it, they'd have to fight me for it. And I may not be tall, but I'm about twice as wide as most Parisians. BRING IT ON!

Luckily, no one wanted to wrassle for my baguette, even though revolutions have been started and kings beheaded over them. Or so the story goes. So vital and important is the cylindrical loaf of bread that the price of a standard-length/width piece is regulated by the government. It is, with its crunchy outside and soft chewy inside, the flour-based fabric of polite French society.

Considering my own reaction to being breadless, I can't imagine what sort of popular revolt would come about if there was a massive bread shortage. If Dr. Atkins (he of the low-carb diet "revolution") had his own island, France would be perpetually at war with it. But that old quack is dead anyway, and here, bread is victorious. Vive la baguette!