Débrouillarde

So the calm and comfort I was beginning to feel on Tuesday was unceremoniously smashed upon calling up British Airways to reserve a spot for Puck. Before booking I had checked to make sure they accept animals, but apparently even though he is accompanied, Puck cannot fly in the baggage hold during my flights. He has to fly unaccompanied as cargo, a whole mess of rules and regulations that I was not prepared for. Least of all was I prepared for the price -- about 500 euros. To get him here was supposed to cost $175 but by some miracle ended up being $70. Anyway, this 500 euro price includes two flights and an overnight stay in London, because the only plane going from Paris to London the day I leave isn't leaving until 5 pm.

Even so, this was way more than the about 300 euro I'd conserved to get him home and perhaps buy myself a new cell phone. So I called around to pretty much every airline with cargo. Air Canada told me to fuck off and use an American airline. The cunt at United said I'd have to call the Paris cargo office, but suggested I look up the number online or in the phone book. The dimwit at American Airlines gave me two numbers that don't exist. There was a brief glimmer of hope from Air France, who in fact had a direct flight from Paris to San Francisco that would be unloading around the time I got into SFO myself. Unforunately, they wanted about 700 euros. How could it be so expensive for the direct flight? Anyway, I gave up and I am waiting for the all-clear from British Airways. I'll put it on my credit card, I'll pay it off -- that is life and motherhood. I can't very well leave him in Paris. In fact this whole thing reminded me that he needed another health certificate. I flew Air Canada to get here in August, where he was baggage. But I did all the EU animal immigration footwork and got him: a health certificate (in French), a 15-digit European microchip, and a rabies vaccination. Naturally, no one asked a shred of evidence when I was leaving LAX or arriving at CDG. Although now since I won't be there, I'm sure it will be. So yesterday in my frenzy, I looked up English-speaking vets in the 6th arrondisement. The woman I thought I was calling apparently handed her practice over to someone who doesn't really speak English, but as per usual, it wasn't even necessary. Same thing happened when I opened my bank account at an English-speaking branch, or tried to speak English on the phone with the Air France people. One day, I will realize that I speak French.

So this morning, Puck and I took the bus about 10 minutes down to Saint-Placide and had a short, sweet (read: 20 minutes) appointment with Dr. Rodriguez. He didn't weigh him or take his temperature, but I now have a new international health certificate for Puck, all for 50 euros. In San Francisco I usually take him to the SPCA, where they charged me $45 for the appointment and another $50 for the USDA certificate. Sometimes France is actually civilized.


So this drama all got kicked-off a couple hours before I left for Nanterre to take a final. Luckily it was my BS American Civilization class and an essay on Common Sense, which was my summer book report for AP US history (remember those good times?). If it didn't go well, I'll tell MICEFA to burn the grade sheet and pretend I never took the class.

Anyway, while on the train to the final I decided I'm going to get "Breathe" tattooed on me, probably on my rib cage (though I've heard it hurts like a bitch). I emailed my mom about it and she offered to pay for it. What has the world come to? When I was little, my mom used to see tattooed and pierced people and snicker while I chided her for being judgmental. When I was 12, after years of begging, my mom FINALLY let me get my ears pierced for my Bat Mitzvah. Then it was "nothing else until you're out of the house." A couple years later I got my step dad to take me to get second holes when my mom was out of town, which she didn't like but didn't freak out about. Then when I was sixteen there were the third holes in my ears, followed two days later by the belly button ring piercing that she drove me to (but I used my own 65 bucks). Flash to last summer and the woman is getting an ohm tattooed on her back at Sole Patch on Haight while I take pictures for my photojournalism class. My, how things change. I've also decided that I want "Débrouillarde" tattooed on my hairline, just behind my ear. I think I've earned it.