Au Cochonnet Marin

Yesterday I noticed that my gas tank was almost empty, and I decided to go for a refill. As I have done it many times, I drove to the 76 station around the corner and went through the motions of paying with my regular credit card.

Then I inserted the pump’s nozzle into my gas tank and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. I attempted the same familiar routine a few times without any success. I even tried another credit card, (knowing full well that there was nothing wrong with the first one), and it still did not work.

I walked into the attendant’s booth and told the young woman behind the counter that the pump was not working. As luck would have it, the young attendant (obviously foreign) answered in some barely intelligible English. I asked her to repeat, without any additional success.

Another older woman with slightly better English (but much worse manners) intervened, but I still couldn’t understand what she was saying. Shortly after, she refused to help any further.
To make matters even worse, I discovered that I could not remove the pump from my gas tank. This car, being brand new, is still keeping many secrets from me, and  I did not know what to do. After a few vigorous attempts, the pump finally came out and  I drove away, seething with anger.

This situation just happened to be one of my pet peeves. I bear no particular grudge against foreign-born individuals, but if you don’t speak English, you have no business dealing with the public. I understand that everybody needs a job, but if you cannot converse in the local lingo, you should find some manual labor where you would not have to speak to anybody. I am fully cognizant of this situation because upon my arrival in the US, my first job was as a dishwasher. And rightfully so, because then, handicapped by a heavy French accent, I could barely comprehend or say anything in English. I had no business talking to anybody.

But as we used to say in my old neighborhood, Le hasard fait bien les choses… After returning home, I enlisted my wife to come along (and maybe offer some suggestions) and I drove to another gas station.

 Then, miracle of miracles, the gods smiled on me. I discovered that the gas there was 25 cents cheaper than in my regular station… and I had absolutely no problem with my credit card or pulling out the pump from my gas tank.

I don’t hate “immigrants” but the first duty of any foreign national who resettles in a new country is to learn the local language. Absolutely no excuses for not doing so. If you are too lazy to do this, stay home and watch cartoons.

Useless to say that I totally divorced my regular gas station and that I will never attempt any reconciliation. The break is final… and I will keep the dog.

Alain

When I was a teenager, I was fearless… more likely unaware of life’s pitfalls. I saw no evil anywhere and I fearlessly rode my bike in Paris bareheaded and wearing short pants. And like all my contemporaries, I survived unharmed.
But that was then, and this is now.

Today America feels more like a war zone than a nation at peace. Bullets are flying everywhere, and everybody will soon be wearing helmets and bulletproof vests… just in case.  For fashionistas, Kevlar is going to be the garment of choice… for you never know when you are going to run into an aggrieved gun-toting advocate. And there seem to be plenty of them out there with itchy trigger fingers…

The times they are a-changing… That’s for sure, but the honey-tongued NRA is putting up a brave front on all of this. We don’t need to change anything, or very little they say… everything is fine… don’t worry, everything is under control.

This reminds me of an old popular French song that went:

 Tout va très bien, Madame la Marquise,
Tout va très bien, tout va très bien.
Pourtant, il faut, il faut que l’on vous dise,
On déplore un tout petit rien :
Un incident, une bêtise,
La mort de votre jument grise,
Mais, à part ça, Madame la Marquise
Tout va très bien, tout va très bien.

 I took the liberty to substitute one line of this song to illustrate my line of thought.

Everything is fine, Madame la Marquise,
Everything is fine, everything is fine.
However, we must, we must tell you,
We regret a very small thing:
An incident, a mistake,
The death of your gray mare,
The shooting of 19 children in Texas
But, apart from that, Madame la Marquise
Everything is fine, everything is fine.

Unfortunately, despite these reassuring words, things are not going well on our planet.

Batten down the hatches my friends, the worse is yet to come.

Alain

For the sake of old times…

What makes an event successful? The setting, the service, the sound system, and the guests.

Well, everything was there yesterday at the memorial service honoring Roger Mattei and his family. It took place under bright sunshine at the home of Tom and Monique (Bricca) on the outskirts of San Rafael.

The food was catered, and Jean-Paul Barthe and his wife Elisabeth provided the sound system and video. Thanks to Jean-Paul’s savoir-faire, numerous photos recounting Roger and Sabine’s lives were shown on a large TV screen for everybody to see.

Roger was a legendary figure among the Bay Area French community. For 20 years, he and his mother Ginette owned Le Montmartre, a bar located on Broadway (and for 12 more years on Lombard) in San Francisco, and it was always well attended. After a while, it became known as the unofficial French Consulate of the city, and you went there to see, be seen, or do business.

It was a mandatory spot to drop by for any French visitor, and when Charles Aznavour gave a concert in San Francisco, he of course came to this place for some drinks and merrymaking.

The fame of this establishment traveled far and wide. Every four years, a French Navy training ship called La Jeanne d’Arc dropped anchor in San Francisco and everybody aboard knew about this place. Useless to say when this happened, Le Montmartre was literally mobbed.

Roger, who by the way was a devilishly handsome gentleman, was a man’s man. He loved the outdoors and was an avid hunter and fisherman. Every occasion was good for him to go on some expedition on the sea or some mountain. He loved to drive and also rode a motorcycle.

Numerous guests and family members were present yesterday, and a few volunteered to say a few words and anecdotes about Roger. His sons and grandsons also paid tribute to their patriarch, and some shed some tears recounting some memories.

Many members of our pétanque club came to pay tribute to Roger and his wife Sabine. Among them, Christine Cragg, Jean-Claude and Minette Etallaz, Antoine and Eva Lofaro, François and Danielle Moser, Serge Hanne, Noël and Rosalie Marcovecchio, Claudie Chourré, Alain and Evelyne Marchand and of course the three musketeers Mireille Di Maio, Monique Bricca and Sabine Mattei.

The memorial was very successful, and I am pretty sure that Roger, riding shotgun on some heavenly cloud, was smiling approvingly.

Alain