How (and why) I was fined 2.33 euros

Warning: the first paragraph may induce headache, dizziness, confusion, or nausea, as it is a brief description of various French administrative processes related to setting up a business here. Proceed with caution, and above all, avoid any website which enumerates the different taxes levied on business owners in France.

Whenever I receive a letter from the Préfecture (visa application), the French tax office (income tax, business tax, housing tax, business rental tax, among others...), URSSAF (social benefits for self-employed workers), Ameli (health care, but only for salaried employees; before I started my new business last year, health care was handled by URSSAF, but now that I am salaried, it is handled by Ameli), the Greffe du Tribunal de Commerce de Paris (oversees the founding of a company and its annual reporting), the DIRECCTE (handles issues related to professional development and training, which is the basis of my company), or B2B (a private company that continues to threaten me for not paying into their private retirement fund, but whose threats I patently send directly to the recycling bin), I worry and fret as I open the envelope.

I worry because the laws are confusing here, websites give conflicting information, the phone numbers found on websites ring endlessly and emails often go unanswered for months (aside from some exceptional reactivity from the préfecture – although that is because they kept me in a holding pattern for over 18 months, even though I had a valid visa and they were aware that the technicality blocking my application warranted some TLC on their part). On some occasions, even, the physical address listed on an administrative website is wrong (or out-of-date). I learned this once after hopping into a cab, rushing across town, and attempting to speak to someone at DIRECCTE before the two hour lunch break, but sadly the office had moved outside of Paris. Getting to their new office in Aubervilliers is a story for another day (but in short, my bus broke down and I ended up walking through a ZFU or zone franche urbaine -- which is like an inner-city zone in process of development; companies in those areas receive tax incentives, but the ZFU are also known for the distinction of being rather unsafe, and I had worn unfortunate shoes that day).

Last week I received one of those dreaded envelopes from the Greffe. I was concerned because I had just submitted my annual report, and since it was the first time I’d done so, I wasn’t sure I’d completely understood how to prepare the components. As feared, I had not.

For this story to make sense, let’s go back to April 2013, when I was setting up my new company. As a company with one shareholder (myself), I still have to convene an assembly with the shareholder (myself) to approve all company decisions (that I have made). So after creating the company constitution and getting it approved (by myself) at a meeting (with myself), I sent the minutes from the meeting (with myself) and all other documents to the Greffe. A few weeks later I needed to make an amendment, so I had to host a meeting (with myself), write up the minutes, and approve the decision I had made. I did so with my eyes in a semi-permanent rolled state.

Fast-forward to April 2014, when I had to write up my annual report and send it in to the Greffe. I had read online that a company with only one shareholder need not hold a meeting to approve the annual report, so I omitted this step. My mistake. Apparently the information on that website was incorrect.  The letter I just received from the Greffe has informed me that I have been fined 2,33 euros for not stating explicitly that I, the person who wrote the annual report, and I, the business owner, and I, the sole shareholder, did not explicitly approve of the document that I wrote and sent in. And yes, the fine was really two euros and thirty-three cents.

So today, once I finish regaling you with this little anecdote, I will sit at my desk, write a check for 2.33 euros and then write the minutes to the meeting I will (not--shhh!) have with myself and sign a letter which clearly states that I approve of the work that I completed two weeks ago.

I have been told that the current administration (Hollande, Valls et al.) has plans to streamline the administrative work for small businesses. We’ll see about that…

Sometimes it's Just Easier to Do As You're Told

Earlier this week, my printer started to malfunction, randomly adding swaths of pink ink throughout each page. While I didn't care about extra pink ink on my recipe for fish cakes, I was concerned about sending in official documents to the Paris bureau of the Chamber of Commerce and Industry (CCI).

In April of this year I applied to launch Steinhaus Business Communication, my own teaching and coaching company. Since submitting the first application forms online, things have turned comical, assuming you find French administrative shenanigans the least bit funny.

While declaring my starting capital, I wrote one euro (the minimum) on one online document and ten euros (a more aggressive proclamation of ''I'm in business!'') on my official company ''constitution'' or charter. Both documents were initially accepted by the CCI, and just as I'd thought I'd successfully submitted all the necessary paperwork, I was asked to clarify the issue of my starting capital.

I replied by email that the correct figure was ten euros.

A few days later, I received a follow-up email instructing me to modify the company constitution to reflect the correct sum, so I dutifully did so.

A few days after that, I was told that my application could not be processed. It seems that when one wishes to modify the company constitution, one has to hold an assembly with company shareholders to approve the modification, record the minutes from the meeting, and submit everything in writing, having initialed each page.

I had to re-read that email because the request from the CCI seemed nonsensical: my company is a SASU, of which the letter ''u'' is most important: it means UNIPERSONNEL. I was essentially being asked to schedule a meeting with myself.

No matter, I did as told, which is to say: I invited myself to attend a meeting to see if I would agree to update the starting capital from one euro to ten euros; established the meeting's agenda (to discuss articles 6, 7, and 23 of my company charter to determine if the starting capital could be switched from one euro to ten euros); conducted the meeting with myself (wherein I had unanimous approval to change the starting capital from one euro to ten euros); and then diligently typed up the meeting minutes, which clearly explained that I held a meeting with myself, discussed the pre-determined agenda, and came to a unanimous decision.

I chuckled softly while writing this document, ever-grateful that sample ''minutes'' are available in French, which allowed me to cut and paste, and wondered how my representative at the Chamber of Commerce could keep a straight face while asking me to carry out the task. In the end, I concluded that he simply didn't see the humor and was only concerned about being able to tick off boxes on his checklist.

After going to an Internet cafe to print the modified constitution and the meeting minutes, (the pink ink seemed like an inappropriate addition, and I was afraid I would have to hold another meeting to justify the decision to submit such creatively-decorated paperwork), I eventually received an email confirming that my modifications had been registered.

Meanwhile, my printer was still ''en panne'' or broken.

A few weeks ago I had a computer virus, and the prognosis was grim until I erased my hard drive and re-installed Windows. This means my printer drivers were lost. When I re-installed the drivers a few weeks later, I accidentally chose the German version. As a result, when I now go to print, I have to choose between four ''Druckereinrichtung'': automatisch, schnelldruck, normal, and beste. I recognized the icons and could print in draft mode with ease (it's ''schnelldruck'' if you find yourself in the same pickle). However, when it came to troubleshooting, I was swimming in a sea of five-syllable German words.

Knowing I wouldn't be able to fix the ink problem on my own, I decided to contact Lexmark USA, having long-ago made the conclusion that whenever possible, seek customer service outside of France. As soon as the Lexmark people learned I was in France, they re-directed me to the French office. I researched the price of a new printer before calling the French office, assuming that that was going to be the end result anyway. 

Quel surpris!

The customer service representative walked me through a manual cleaning of the ''tête d'imprimante'' (the printer head), and requested a few other details. Upon realizing that my printer could not be fixed over the phone, he told me to expect a package from Lexmark within five to ten business days.

Four days later I had a package that included a replacement printer head, and four (4!) replacement cartridges for the black and colored ink. ''They have different service standards because it's an American company,'' I comforted myself, not sure how else to process this efficient and courteous interaction. Or better yet, maybe French companies are learning the importance of improved customer service.

As of today, my printer is fixed, my French taxes have been filed, the fish cakes were made (I recommend  frying them in coconut oil -- c'est délicieux!), and I'm almost ready to start prospecting for new clients.

Bon week-end!

The Paris Housing Hunt: Secrets from Behind Enemy Lines

Trying to rent an apartment in Paris is one of the ultimate tests of resilience, good humor, and skin thickness. Perhaps most unfortunately for some, it is also a terrifying game of luck. When I first looked for an apartment here in early February 2010, I visited four apartments in three days, and was lucky enough to nab the first one I saw, which was also the one I liked the most. But I've watched many suffer from the inefficient, cheaters-take-all system here, and get agitated just thinking about moving again.

To be fair: it is difficult to evict someone from an apartment in Paris; in winter it is actually illegal to kick someone out -- this is socially responsible, but it can mean that those who don't cheat, but who can actually pay their rent even if their dossier suggests otherwise, may suffer.


When people ask what it's like to live in Paris, or when friends come to visit, I warn them sternly: it's difficult to live here. From the metro tickets that get de-magnetized to the clerks at the post office who won't ring you up because they are only working as agents d' accueil (''welcomers'') -- even though they clearly have the skills and ability to help you make your purchase -- there are many opportunities to lose your cool throughout the day in gay Paree.

Side note: I'm still bitter about the post office drama that befell me today. There was a long line waiting to check out, and so I asked the agent d'accueil if I could pay him, but he refused. When I acted confused (considering that on a recent trip, his colleague at the same post was able to take my money), he said he only used the register when the line got backed up; his job was accueil.  Meanwhile, the customer at the main register had a giant stack of envelopes to stamp, plus certified and registered letters to prepare, and a package or two to collect; I sensed she would be a while, and I simply wanted to ship a small birthday package to my mom. I did my Frenchly duty, letting out exhausted sighs, puffing hot hair through my lips, and most certainly rolling my eyes a few times as well.

As I waited impatiently, I considered reverting to an old trick. Over the years, I have observed that it is easy to rip off the French post office. All the packaging materials (envelopes and packages) are essentially pre-stamped and put on display. The assumption is that you will pay for the packaging material before leaving the post office; but, this is in fact not required. For the record, you can pick up a Chronopost puffy envelope or box, stick your items inside, address and seal the package, and then slip it into any nearby mailbox or bin. (I may or may not have done this in the past.) It was certainly tempting to try today as the minutes ticked by, and I was in a hurry to get to work. (Well, not such a hurry. I was headed to the Musée d'Orsay and had no official start time, but the sun was shining and that is a  commodity I am loathe to waste).

Needless to say, eight or nine long minutes ticked by before the agent d'accueil realized that the line was not moving. Finally, he offered to ring me up at his station. I tried to hide my snarky ''I-told-you-so'' face.

But back to the issue at hand, which is perhaps even more frustrating than going to La Poste: finding a place to live in Paris. Typically, you need to supply the owner or landlord with a dossier, which is an assortment of financial paperwork showing your salary, the financial information of the person who will pay your rent in case you default (notarized, of course), and for foreigners, any paperwork related to your visa. And your dossier must be convincing. As I've since learned, many people falsify their financial documents, showing a monthly salary of upwards of ten thousand euros. Were I better at Photoshop, I'm sure I'd try it too. At that time, I was earning less than a thousand euros a month, I only had a ten-month visa (with only three months left), and I had no guarantor. My dossier was refused by real estate agents, and was quickly moved to the bottom of the pile by two of the apartment owners I met.

As part of my search, I visited a Miss Havisham-esque apartment in the 17th, minutes from the Arc de Triomphe and the Champs-Elysées. The wallpaper was peeling off, the ceiling paint was yellowed, the plaster molding needed some TLC, and the rugs were nearing threadbare. The woman warned me that I was merely renting a bedroom in the apartment, which meant that I would be able to use the kitchen, assuming I did so respectfully, and without disrupting her meal rituals. She had a yapping dachschund, and though I was tempted by the small balcony in the available bedroom, I was not convinced I would ever feel at home there. She told me that her current renter often joined her on the Champs for a Sunday evening movie; I had trouble imagining myself filling that role.

Next I made an appointment to visit a studio on the chic Avenue de Suffren, steps from the the Champs de Mars and the Eiffel Tower. This apartment was on the sixth floor. First you walked up five flights on the main (indoor) staircase; then you went outside and took the exterior steps to the sixth floor, which had five or six apartments. There was a separate key for the WC because it was shared among the inhabitants of the floor. The studio's owner, who lived in a posh 1,000 sq. ft. apartment in the connecting building, suggested that I keep my toilet paper in my room, otherwise I'd be subsidizing the TP needs of my floormates.

I later learned that I had visited a chambre de bonne, or a small apartment connected to a luxury apartment building; in the past, the chambre de bonne was typically given to the family maid or nanny, though now these apartments often provide some of the cheapest housing in Paris (and provide their owners with a small rental income). The room is usually a 90 - 100 sq. ft. box, with one small window, hot plate, shower (if lucky), and a clic-clac (cot). I couldn't imagine myself living with so little sunlight, and left feeling overwhelmed and disappointed.

''Easy,'' you might be thinking. ''Use Craigslist.'' Sure, the idea is a good one (I recently bought myself a lovely houseplant and juicer that way), but just this afternoon I nearly got embroiled in an apartment scam on that site. While looking for an apartment for an American student arriving in February, I was told I could secure the apartment by wiring my security deposit to a UK account, and then the owner would come meet me in Paris with the keys. Next I was given the contact information of a former renter, Mr. Wayne Thibault (the name raised some concern, but in the melting pot of the US, such a name seemed plausible), apparently an American student from Mesa, Arizona. This ''American'' had some vocabulary issues. In an email, he told me that the apartment was ''a neat and homely place.'' He added that the owner ''took him out to dinner'' when they first met and that ''he is always checking on my welfare by calling during my stay.'' Clearly his notion of time was suspect, since he later said he was back in the US, and therefore, wasn't available to let me see the apartment.

I wrote them both back, stating that I knew they were trying to scam me, and bid them good day. Now I'm back home, in my own 8th floor shoebox -- it is made up of three chambres de bonnes which have been joined into one cohesive, homey whole. Here, radiator heat blasts uncontrollably, meaning that I often sleep with the windows open, but I don't have to unlock a door to get into the bathroom. I have plentiful sunlight and direct access to my apartment from an indoor staircase (when I'm feeling sporty) and elevators (when I'm not).

After all that, do you want my advice about moving to Paris? Don't move to Paris; come for a visit and find yourself a nice hotel (as for the post office: you're on your own).  

Shaping Up (or they will ship me out!)

This morning I was rather calm for someone who was running fifteen minutes late to meet a new student. ''Karen'' happens to work in the IT department at my language school, so when I arrived at the office, everyone was aware that I was late. The problem is, I didn't really care. I go to the office very rarely, but when I do go there, I exchange pleasantries as quickly as possible before leaving again. I see most of my students at my university or at their offices in La Défense, the business district.

This morning I had emailed and called ahead, so instead of being worried about my lateness, I was annoyed about having to ''faire un déplacement'' (to travel) for one student. Usually I refuse one-off students, and cancel lessons when I am travelling for only one person. I'd rather make no money than divide my hourly salary in three to account for travel time. This behavior is somewhere between unprofessional and simply Johanna-esque (the latter can be dangerous, as I'm learning). Since I am paid per lesson taught, however, there are financial repercussions to these decisions.

I enjoy the freedom of being an independent contractor, of building my own business, of saying who, when, and how much (though there's much less wiggle room when it comes to how much). But is it really a life of freedom if I'm in a constant tug-of-war with my long-term financial security and monthly budget?

When I lived in a shared apartment and had a very affordable rent, this inconsistent work ethic was tenable. Now that I live on my own (and my expenses doubled), the consequences are greater. And, since I chose to dip into my savings rather than work for most of April, May, June, July, August, and, yes, September, too, I'm running out of patience with myself. Yet I'm still refusing work. In early September I was hired to teach at a university within walking distance of my apartment. I turned it down, for reasons I still can't enumerate. Yesterday I was asked to take on a full day of lessons in a nearby suburb; I declined. In part, I'm hoping something better will come along (although I struggle to define ''better''); in part I've been spoiled into thinking that the money I need will arrive without my having to actually do anything (this happened this summer when my old bank sent me fifteen hundred euros to compensate for an administrative error on their part -- the money was mine; I'd just assumed I'd already spent it).

The truth is, yes, the money will arrive, but I have to EARN it. And there's nothing special about me for doing just that.

But back to my new student, who I accepted after panicking, à nouveau, about my declining savings: within minutes of sitting down, Karen spoke easily and openly. She mentioned a six-week backpacking trip to Mali and Burkina Faso. I was full of curiosity and questions. She talked about the late ethnographer, Amadou Hampâté Bâ, who inspired her trip. I made a note to look up his work (once I'm finished with The Epic of Gilgamesh, which I heartily recommend: super powers and sexual shenanigans galore, in a very appealing journey back to the land of the Tigris and Euphrates!).

Upon arriving in Mali, Karen found a local guide and began her journey, traveling from village to village on an old, rickety, window-less bus, changing guides almost as often as the bus broke down. The village men kept her separate from their women as much as possible (being told the women didn't speak French), although she later realized she was kept away from them for fear the women would talk too much about the inequalities they suffered. She described her open-air mud-hut shower stalls, and how when one local dish made her sick, she had to buy rice for the locals, since the villagers couldn't afford to buy it themselves. When I thought about the bountiful jars of rice, quinoa, and soba noodles sitting in my cupboard, I began to feel guilty.

Karen and I briefly compared the advantages of that lifestyle with the métro, boulot, dodo routine (commute, work, sleep) here. They had no money, and they had no electricity, but she countered that with ''no one is alone or lonely there. Ever!'' She added that they enjoyed the sense of community  and solidarity that arises out of necessity in bush country -- in comparison, both are lacking in our more ''civilized societies.''

After talking with Karen, I see that I'm being very self-indulgent and lazy. I have chosen to live in a world that is ruled by money; as such, I've got to play by the rules of that world, even if I pride myself on doing things my way. As I type, my hand is reaching for the telephone to call my boss and accept the full day of lessons. I can't expect those new students will make me smile as much as Karen did today, but at least I will know they are helping me ensure my continued life here in France -- a life I've been proud to create, refine, and share -- and when I'm wise and centered, it is also a life that makes me smile.

Confessions of a train ticket scam artist

Why is it that humans break rules all the time, but, almost universally, drivers get out of the way when an ambulance blares its siren? Is this a moral question, a human survival instinct, or a Pavlovian response? Sometimes I’m afraid France has corrupted my sense of morality; other times I think my time here has brought out my true self.

When I first moved to France, I had very little money, and lived in zone 6 in the Paris region. I tell this to French people and they often respond, ‘’there’s a zone 6?? That must be very far.’’ A round-trip from my former little village to Paris cost about 16 euros. The ride took about an hour. At that time, my budget was 20 euros for the day; the train tickets were interfering with my ability to buy pastries and a demi-carafe of rosé (the occasional museum ticket, too). Fortunately, I was coached by some French friends who told me to ride the train without paying.

Taking the Long Island Railroad as a child, I was accustomed to seeing train conductors on every train. In France, however, the conductors (here called controlleurs) appear on suburban trains sporadically – often hopping on at random stops, and walking through the train in packs of six, asking to see your ticket. Otherwise, you are ostensibly ‘’free’’ to use the train system, able to travel at least one hour in any direction outside of Paris, for free.   

Of course, you are expected to purchase a ticket for every train ride and to validate (stamp) the ticket before getting on board. However, many stations have open platforms, which means you can walk on without going through a turnstile; otherwise, people simply jump over the turnstile. Meanwhile, the station agents say nothing. Jumping turnstiles is too much effort for my less-than-graceful self; I use a ticket in these stations. 

During that first year, I was stopped by controlleurs several times. My routine was simple. As the grey-suited controlleurs approached, I pulled out my Time Out Paris guide and waited. As soon as he or she began speaking to me, I would look startled, and then feigning confusion, I handed over my ticket. ‘’I’m sorry, I don’t speak French,’’ I began. The controlleur would take the ticket, flip it over, looking for the date stamp, and then hand it back to me. ‘’This ticket is not valid,’’ I would be told. ‘’Yes! It’s a ticket! You are the controlleur, you will stamp it for me!’’ I responded in my fastest, most incomprehensible English. We circled like this for a few more rounds, before the controlleur would sigh, lean in towards me and explain, ''it’s alright this time. But next time you will get a fine. You must validate your ticket at the station.’’

‘’Ahh, I didn’t know that! It’s not like that in the USA!’’ I answered proudly, smiling. ‘’Thank you very much!’’ Things got more interesting when one controlleur changed up the routine.  His first comment to me (before inspecting my ticket) was, ''Are you married?’’ which he followed quickly with, ''do you have a boyfriend?’’ When I said no to both questions, he took my ticket and walked away. Upon returning he said, ‘’here’s my number. You’re very cute! Call me!’’ Our discussion about tickets and fines was seemingly over.

During my second year in France, I met a quirky French guy living in Paris. I named him Billy the Kid as it was a liberal translation of his Franco-Italian name. Billy’s job was to monitor the controlleurs. Each week he received the master list of train timetables, as well as the controlleurs’ daily schedule. He knew when controlleurs were supposed to be on different trains, and his job was to take those trains to make sure they were doing their job. While we dated, I could call him on Monday, get a run-down of his list, and ride the trains in tranquility. Eventually Billy the Kid and I split up, and I was back to my train shenanigans. I was running late one day, and got on a train to nearby Fontainebleau. Usually I had an unstamped ticket to my destination, but this day, I had no ticket whatsoever. As the train doors closed, I saw a pack of grey suits hop on. ‘’Damnit,’’ I thought to myself. ‘’How will I get out of this one?’’

I wasn’t so afraid of the fine – I was more concerned that my pride would be tarnished (as it eventually was, when I received a fine on the metro) by getting caught. I saw the controlleurs approaching and slipped into the nearest train bathroom, buying myself time. ‘’Aha!’’ I thought. I realized that if I sat in the bathroom for the whole journey, I could escape the controlleurs. I reasoned that if I didn’t lock the bathroom door, they would have no reason to suspect that there was a passenger in there. I took out my makeup pouch and began to apply eyeliner. One or two people tried to enter the bathroom, but no controlleurs.

But there was still one problem. Since this was not my typical train, I didn’t know how many stops until we reached Fontainebleau. Each time the train stopped, I had to lean on the door and listen for voices before peeking to find out where we were. Forty minutes later, I arrived at my destination, and applauded myself for my latest bit of train-riding fraud.

Now that I live and work in Paris, I pay for my monthly metro pass. I realized that it’s quite exhausting to look over your shoulder, each time the train doors open, to see if a controlleur has gotten on. And it’s a big waste of time when you have to stop and pay a fine (or, in my case, try to argue your way out of a fine).

This all being said, sometimes I position myself on the right side of good citizenship (some French would argue that scamming the train company is a sign that I am an upstanding citizen). All along the Seine here in Paris, you are apt to run across a middle-aged man or woman who will lean to the ground, pick up a gold ring, and hand it to you right as you walk by. The scammer will try to convince you that it’s yours, that it’s real gold, and that you should take it (in exchange for some euros). When I see this familiar routine, I often interrupt, looking directly at the tourist and say ‘’do you speak English? Walk away. This is a scam.’’ When that doesn’t work, I find their eyes and shake my head as I motion for them to leave. Then I get yelled at by the scammer, the tourist thanks me, and everyone walks away. It feels good each time I do it, though I wonder how anyone could possibly get fooled by that routine. (This from the girl who basically invited a gang of three guys to steal her phone on a recent trip to Rome).

Does one good deed balance out all the dishonest ones? My beloved high school English teacher often asked us to determine the ‘’moral center’’ of the novels we read. I like to think of morality this way: grey and revolving, not rigid. Friends and I talk about how we are essentially being dared to break the rules here; but choosing to act with honesty and integrity, while not always the route I take, feels good. Lately the same applies for work. Instead of doing the bare minimum to get the job done, I’ve watched myself attempt to do the best job possible; that, too, feels good, even if the outcome isn’t as glamorous as might be desired.

Top Five Misconceptions about les français

5. French people eat a lot of baguettes.

There is a big difference between a baguette and a baguette de tradition -- typically called a tradition (tra-DIH-see-ohhn) around here. The latter is more expensive, but also more delicious. So this is actually a technicality. Baguettes and traditions are both eaten quite regularly.

4. French people don't shower. And they smell.

Stereotype! Smelly people and clean people can be found in all corners of the globe.

3. French people don't work hard.

I don't always work so hard, but that's not a culture-wide phenomenon.

2. The Sorbonne is the best school in France.

Before coming to France, I'd heard about the Sorbonne, and was made to think that anyone who had a degree from there was really something. Nope. Perhaps in the US it is the most well-known French university. However, the most prestigious schools here are called les grandes écoles and they include Ecole Polytechnique, Ecole nationale d'administration (a factory for churning out future French politicians), the écoles normales supérieures, and several others.

1. French people like to say ''oh la la!'' or ''c'est la vie'' and ''crème de la crème.''

While they do say ''oh la la'' quite a bit (I love to say it for dramatic effect in a variety of situations, too),  I have never heard the other two expressions used.  You're more likely to hear ''C'est top!'' or ''C'est fashion!''

Monday

A few days ago my Great-Aunt Nora died. Nora lived in a trailer park in Maine, and did her shopping at the park's convenience store, unless she got a ride to the supermarket from her friend Amber, or someone in our family. Nora had a sweet tooth and a zest for life; she celebrated both with a splash of Bailey's in her coffee, and a scratch-and-play lottery ticket whenever the budget allowed (probably even when it didn't). I remember her modest home filled with Pomeranians and stray cats, giant cans of Chock full o' Nuts coffee, stale cigarette smoke, piles and piles of magazines and promotional flyers, and best of all, her bubbly, rolling laugh. ''Heee-heee-heee,'' she would giggle, tipping forward with her dowager's hump. My father loved Nora -- she was my mother's aunt -- and always insisted on visiting her before going home, even though that pit stop meant an hour-long detour before an eight-hour drive.

As my brother and I discussed the flowers we would send to the funeral home, my mind drifted towards the autumnal horizon, which will forever be linked with the anniversary of our own father's death. His passing was swift and unexpected, though when I had seen him the day before, I said, ''Goodbye, Captain,'' and somehow knew that it was a final goodbye. The next day I woke as usual. Before going to class, I called home. No one answered, but I left a message, thanking my parents for bringing me homemade applesauce and cinnamon raisin bread. We shared love through food, and my belly was the best emblem of this love. That evening, I had a three-hour lecture, from 7 - 10pm.

Sometime before eight, while sitting in the lecture hall, I started to panic and feel agitated. I tried to wait for the class break, but suddenly, and without knowing why, I gathered my things, left the lecture hall, and immediately called home. When no one answered, I called my mom on her cellphone. At that moment, she was driving down the lane to our house. Richards Lane is a narrow road with barely enough room for one car to pass. In early November, there are few remnants of the plush tree canopy that beckons you down the hill, and since the lane is privately owned, there are no street lamps. Our house, built by my grandfather in 1936, is at the end of the quarter-mile path.

I don't remember what my mom and I were talking about until she said, ''that's funny, daddy didn't leave the lights on for me.'' We chatted as she parked the car and walked up to the backdoor. ''Hmm. There's a note on a business card: 'Taken to the hospital - call police.' Johanna, something's happened to daddy, let me call you back.''

A few minutes passed and my phone did not ring. So I called her back. ''Johanna,'' my mom said in a frazzled voice, ''I haven't found your father yet. I am going to have to call you back.'' I sat on the steps behind my dorm and waited. Then my phone rang. ''Johanna,'' my mom began. ''I have some terrible news. Daddy died. . .When they couldn't find him in the ER, I knew to call the morgue.''

These melancholy memories were only heightened last night when I watched Sir Terry Pratchett's documentary, Choosing to Die. It chronicles his interviews with a few people who, like himself, were considering Dignitas, an assisted-suicide facility in Switzerland. Prachett currently battles Alzheimer's, and wants assisted suicide to be legalized in the UK.  Towards the end of the film, a woman sits by her husband as he drinks the poison, then begs for water (he is denied by the Gravitas staff member, who urges him to relax), falls asleep, and dies. The whole process takes fifteen minutes, but is condensed to two or three in the documentary. Sir Prachett is in the room as it happens, and as the viewer, so are you.

Lately I've been reading French Children Don't Throw Food by Pamela Druckerman, an absorbing, yet frustrating comparison of Anglo-Saxon and French child-rearing habits.What's most difficult about living in France is that I miss both: births and deaths. A good friend gave birth in Los Angeles on Thursday night; another gave birth nine months ago, but who knows when I will meet either baby. Coming home for Nora's funeral is hors question, but sending flowers feels like an unsatisfying ritual. Does it matter if we choose a colorful bouquet or standard white lilies?

With my balcony doors open this morning, I can once again hear the steady cries of the children playing at school across the street. The voices will change and the sounds will vary, but the gaiety remains strong all day long. I keep thinking that my life will morph into a neat, and easy-to-digest Hollywood ending (one of these days), but instead, I'm starting to think that messy and bittersweet are here to stay.