It amuses me how often people ask me for directions here in Montpellier. I do exactly nothing to blend in. Yes, I speak French when I’m here, but my vocabulary is limited, and my accent is 100% American. My wardrobe doesn’t scream local either. With my black shirt and my 5.11 Tactical cap, I wouldn’t have looked out of place at a gun range. I must have a kind face.
What’s more amusing is how often I actually know the answer, which is nearly always. Just this morning, on the tram, a woman asked if we were at the stop for Marché du Lez. We were. I said so. She thanked me.
The heating project that brought me here has moved forward slowly. The first visit was within 48 hours of my arrival, at which time the technician proposed a solution that would solve our problems without ripping open walls and destroying cabinets. Over a week later, I still didn’t have an invoice for the visit, much less an estimate for the forthcoming work.
The office for the heating contractor is a short walk from the apartment, so two days ago I strolled down there and asked for a status update. Apparently, the estimator had been sick, but the receptionist printed my invoice, which had somehow disappeared into the ether, and I paid it immediately. I received an estimate by e-mail before the close of business, which I signed and returned within the hour. Now I just need an appointment for the next visit.
Otherwise, since I’ve been working remotely from here, things have been a bit métro, boulot, dodo for me. Except that my boulot doesn’t require a métro, and working Arizona hours has messed with my dodo.
I told myself that I was going to get takeout at least three times a week while I’m here, just so my mealtimes don’t become too monotonous. I’ve fallen a bit short on that goal so far, averaging two. For this afternoon, however, I decided to enjoy the beautiful weather and the Saturday vibe and go out for a couple happy hour pints. The people watching, as usual, is excellent. I may get takeout on the way back. Or not.
