The Yogurt Aisle
Near the apartment is a Carrefour supermarket that has about half of an aisle devoted to yogurt. Interestingly, there are no tubs; all are packaged in containers of individual servings. You can buy one serving, two, four and so on to sizes greater than a dozen. Clearly this is a country that eats a lot of yogurt. And every man, woman and child eats exactly the same amount at a sitting.
Emma Airborne
Emma's long-dreaded journey to Paris went well in the end, if not altogether smoothly and certainly not happily. She has been successfully reunited with her mistress, and has taken possession of new territory, on the fifth floor of a one-bedroom walk-up in the 16th arrondissement.
Truly, the most challenging aspect was the preparation of the paperwork. One trip to the vet in July for a rabies vaccination; another just before we left to collect a health certificate; at which late date it was revealed that a third excursion was required: to have the health certificate endorsed by a government vet. There was only one of the latter who could do this, and his office was conveniently located at the dark end of a Richmond Hill strip mall. Newly carless, this necessitated a subway trip to the Northerly extremus of the Yonge line, whence I boarded a bus to ride another half an hour up the map, where I waited 45 minutes in the functionary's office for him to get around to stamping my form, whereupon I unwound the journey. Having left at lunchtime, I returned to the office just in time for a farewell drink with my colleagues. A rather large bite out of my last day at work. It would have been intolerable if I'd had to bring Emma herself along; and since I didn't, one wonders what the point is in having a vet sign a form regarding an animal he's never seen.
Saturday it remained only to pack up, and pop Emma in her kitty carrier - but first, swallow half a children's Gravol, it's for your own good dear. Maybe not. Pinned on the sofa, there was no way those sharp teeth were coming apart, and my efforts only resulted in the Gravol becoming paste in her saliva. I attempted to make the best of it by rubbing it around her teeth and gums in a vain hope that some would be ingested or absorbed somehow. Fat chance, because upon release Emma started frothing and drooling like a St. Bernard. If I got close again, she bolted, leaving a trail of slime and bubbles around my rented apartment.
Out of time, I cornered her and man-handled her into the carrier. Downstairs friend Aaron was ready to deliver us to the airport, which was done with Emma's customary vocal protests at being in car. Once at the airport, however, she either calmed down or accepted her plight. She stopped yowling, although she remained wild-eyed. The only remaining tense moment was the security screening, where she was required to pass through with me so that her bag could be x-rayed. I enlisted two screeners to coordinate the manouvere with me, and we managed to restore her to the bag with a minimum of struggling.
Aboard, I tucked her under the seat in front and advised its occupant of her presence. A young girl nearby took an interest, and the first French language exercise of my new life as a Parisian was to perform the introduction. After that, there was a plaintive meow every ten minutes or so, quieted with a hand in the bag and a scratch behind the ears. Other than one perfunctory break for freedom, easily frustrated, the flight was uneventful.
At Charles de Gaul, I could have easily swept out with the crowd in the nothing-to-declare crush, but I wasn't going to let my paper chase end without acknowledgement, so called an inspector over to the red lane and obliged him to review the forms. He handed them back quickly and we were on our way. As a measure of how little was demanded in this interview, I didn't even need to slip into English.
One last feebly-protested taxi ride, five flights of stairs, and Emma was free again. It took an hour or so of sniffing around before she was back to normal, and to all outward appearances, unruffled mistress of her new domain.
