Big Guns

I woke up yesterday morning, thinking ‘I can get through this day without pharmaceutical assistance,’ which I then repeated twenty times to try to really convince myself. We head off to the apartment to wait for the mini movers to arrive. When I open the door, they were two and they were big(ger).  Mover number one says that the mini guys called HQ and red flagged us because our sofa was too heavy so they had to send out the big guns (ie: him and the guy standing next to him) to unload the truck. High-five! Side note:  the term ‘big guns’ is all relative here because for the EU they were pretty decent sized men but next to Canadian lumberjack standards they would still be called, well, little girls.  Anyway, the move went down smoothly and crisis has been averted for the moment.

And someone up there really threw me a bone when both the France Telecom guy and the Ikea guy showed their faces yesterday.  North Americans, let me point out that these are no easy feats in a country such as this one.

I did notice one glaring Lyon vs Paris difference. First, the Ikea truck blocked a wealthy man and his little sports car. What did he do? Paris standard would have been to have cursed and yelled and eventually kicked - and possibly key - the truck. Lyon standard is to say ‘No problem’ and then ask me if he could help me take the boxes up.  Shocking. Especially because I dressed like a street urchin in a hooded sweatshirt (a certain no-go in France) and Nike pants (equally a strike). I just might like it here after all.  Now, let’s see if this city can pass the bakery test. Will let you know.