I Finally Saw the Last Episode of Sopranos...and A Cop Story
I finally saw the last episode of the Sopranos. After over a year. I finally saw it. I’m so detached from the latest pop culture. I didn’t know a single movie that was nominated for best picture. I didn’t watch the Oscars even though I was in America for it. Actually, my awesome brother bought us tickets to Darkstar Orchestra. Waaaay better than the Oscars! The Canes won in overtime. Great game, great company. I got hooked on Guitar Hero. Business as usual.
Home was refreshing. I didn't want to leave, especially after getting readjusted to the QWERTY keyboard, and now, ugh. It was a family visit. I needed it. And for the first time, I really felt different about leaving. I felt different about who I am and what I want.
Here's the cop story:
About a month and a half ago, I got a letter in the mail. I get more mail in France than I ever did in the U.S. All the paperwork that involves my sejour, all the crap I get, forms, manuals, bills, statements, whatever, has accumulated after just 5 months to 6 inches of crap that I rarely bother to look at unless I’m going to visit the prefecture or the bank or sign up at the video store, or to swim at the pool. The extra important stuff goes into a folder called "Emily’s Important Papers" so I don’t get confused. This is the folder I grab when I’m going to be dealing with the France.
So I got this letter in the mail. No surprise. I get something almost every day. The return address says police. Ok. Don’t panic. Probably just a get out of jail free card.
It’s a letter from the chief of police of Pamiers, requesting my presence at 10am Friday with all the paperwork relating to my sejour in France.
The letter itself is framed with fancy borders, squiggly doodads and impressive fonts. Immediately I daymare about French prisons, based on an E.E. Cummings memoir I read while I was in Prague about him being arrested in France during WWI and living in horrid conditions involving large teaming excretion buckets and vermin. Oh God.
I took a towel when I left the Dame’s. It wasn’t even a real towel. It’s a dish towel and she had like a thousand of them. I knew I was going to need one really bad.
I littered that time in Toulouse. Well, I dropped a crumpled reciet that was in my pocket and didn’t bother to pick it up. But my friends saw it, did they turn me in?
I didn’t go to work the day after the Giants won the Superbowl. It’s just that I had been up until 5 in the morning and I hadn’t taken a personal day yet. The Giants won the Superbowl! I felt I deserved it.
Crap. The chief of police. Friday morning at 10. Bring my paperwork. Crap. I warned all my friends on Thursday that I might be using my one phone call on them if my boss (The Comparetti as Oscar calls her) doesn't answer. They responded, allthough with suspicious eyes, that they didn't think that my sometimes rebellious acts added up to real crimes.
The cops made me wait in the waiting area for about 10 minutes when I arrived. They were friendly enough, but my paranoia had them whispering about the "rican" and laughing at my impending doom. I pretended to read but really fantasized about sharing a jail cell with anorexic hairy french women. It probably wouldn't be so bad for my french.
I was sent upstairs and greeted by Daniel Gauthier, the Commissariat of Police of Pamiers, France. He is mid-thirties, short and fit, with short blond hair and a big warm smile. He initiated a handshake which I gladly accepted (greetings can be confusing for me and awkward ones are a regular occurance). He didn't want kisses, he wanted a hearty American handshake. I liked him immediately.
After a few initial questions, and a satisfied nod from the Chief that my french was in fact "not bad," we went on to discuss everything from young drug-users in America to how to make the text curve along a drawn line in Photoshop. The request for my paperwork was evidently a ploy. This guy wanted to shoot the breeze about America. I didn't mind, in fact I enjoyed it. We discussed, religion, politics, languages, drugs, gas prices, food, anything and everything.
He asked what sports I do. I told him I walked 20 km to Foix, the day before. He responded that I my age I should have run there. He asked me what drugs the young people of America are on. I told him, I don't know because I'm not much of a druggie. He said, come on, what do you think, do they do more blow here or there? I said, what?
Pretty soon an hour had gone by and he was making some photocopies of my paperwork to look official and sending me out the door. He said if I ever had a problem not to hesitate. Connections in high places. It might come in handy, you never know. If The Dame ever finds out I took that towel for example...
Home was refreshing. I didn't want to leave, especially after getting readjusted to the QWERTY keyboard, and now, ugh. It was a family visit. I needed it. And for the first time, I really felt different about leaving. I felt different about who I am and what I want.
Here's the cop story:
About a month and a half ago, I got a letter in the mail. I get more mail in France than I ever did in the U.S. All the paperwork that involves my sejour, all the crap I get, forms, manuals, bills, statements, whatever, has accumulated after just 5 months to 6 inches of crap that I rarely bother to look at unless I’m going to visit the prefecture or the bank or sign up at the video store, or to swim at the pool. The extra important stuff goes into a folder called "Emily’s Important Papers" so I don’t get confused. This is the folder I grab when I’m going to be dealing with the France.
So I got this letter in the mail. No surprise. I get something almost every day. The return address says police. Ok. Don’t panic. Probably just a get out of jail free card.
It’s a letter from the chief of police of Pamiers, requesting my presence at 10am Friday with all the paperwork relating to my sejour in France.
The letter itself is framed with fancy borders, squiggly doodads and impressive fonts. Immediately I daymare about French prisons, based on an E.E. Cummings memoir I read while I was in Prague about him being arrested in France during WWI and living in horrid conditions involving large teaming excretion buckets and vermin. Oh God.
I took a towel when I left the Dame’s. It wasn’t even a real towel. It’s a dish towel and she had like a thousand of them. I knew I was going to need one really bad.
I littered that time in Toulouse. Well, I dropped a crumpled reciet that was in my pocket and didn’t bother to pick it up. But my friends saw it, did they turn me in?
I didn’t go to work the day after the Giants won the Superbowl. It’s just that I had been up until 5 in the morning and I hadn’t taken a personal day yet. The Giants won the Superbowl! I felt I deserved it.
Crap. The chief of police. Friday morning at 10. Bring my paperwork. Crap. I warned all my friends on Thursday that I might be using my one phone call on them if my boss (The Comparetti as Oscar calls her) doesn't answer. They responded, allthough with suspicious eyes, that they didn't think that my sometimes rebellious acts added up to real crimes.
The cops made me wait in the waiting area for about 10 minutes when I arrived. They were friendly enough, but my paranoia had them whispering about the "rican" and laughing at my impending doom. I pretended to read but really fantasized about sharing a jail cell with anorexic hairy french women. It probably wouldn't be so bad for my french.
I was sent upstairs and greeted by Daniel Gauthier, the Commissariat of Police of Pamiers, France. He is mid-thirties, short and fit, with short blond hair and a big warm smile. He initiated a handshake which I gladly accepted (greetings can be confusing for me and awkward ones are a regular occurance). He didn't want kisses, he wanted a hearty American handshake. I liked him immediately.
After a few initial questions, and a satisfied nod from the Chief that my french was in fact "not bad," we went on to discuss everything from young drug-users in America to how to make the text curve along a drawn line in Photoshop. The request for my paperwork was evidently a ploy. This guy wanted to shoot the breeze about America. I didn't mind, in fact I enjoyed it. We discussed, religion, politics, languages, drugs, gas prices, food, anything and everything.
He asked what sports I do. I told him I walked 20 km to Foix, the day before. He responded that I my age I should have run there. He asked me what drugs the young people of America are on. I told him, I don't know because I'm not much of a druggie. He said, come on, what do you think, do they do more blow here or there? I said, what?
Pretty soon an hour had gone by and he was making some photocopies of my paperwork to look official and sending me out the door. He said if I ever had a problem not to hesitate. Connections in high places. It might come in handy, you never know. If The Dame ever finds out I took that towel for example...
posted by emily at 4:21 PM
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