Tax Man

I would imagine all inter-cultural couples have moments where they suddennly realize that the most basic elements of their society are foreign to their foreign spouse. Thomas and I had one of those moments Wednesday night - or rather, early Thursday morning.

At 10:30 pm, I returned home from my final outing to the theatre where I'm subscriber. I was feeling nostalgic, having sunk into my red velvet seat before the show thinking "this is the last time I'll come to the theater where I won't worry about the babysitter or be leaking breast milk". Ridiculous, I know, but needless to say I can't pass up a significant moment like that without acknowledging it to myself and revelling in all its potential for drama. After when I got back, I found Thomas sprawled on the living room rug torn between 2 crucial tasks - working on our taxes, and watching a scrimmage match between the French national soccer team and Denmark, or somebody like that. His fervent attention to the TV bodes unwell for me and the BIG EVENT coming up. I refer not to the birth of our child, but the much more important date marked in red on the calendar, the start of the The World Cup on June 9th. But that, clearly, will be another blog entry - maybe several.

I'd double parked the car coming back from the theatre, unable to find a real spot. "You'll have to go out and move the car later". "Ouais......." he mumbled. At midnight, I was ready for bed. I was about to remind him about the car when I saw him pick up his keys, lace up his shoes, and head for the door. "This shouldn't take more than half an hour. I'll try not to wake you when I come in." he said gallantly. "You think parking the car at midnight on a Wednesday will take you half an hour?" I asked. "No, but the time to drive up there and back....." he trailed off.

Here's the beginning of the inter-cultural breakdown. I stare and blink. He stares back. "Up where?" "To the center, it's in the north of Nice." "Center of what?" "For the taxes." This is when I see the big manilla envelope in his hand. "What do you think I'm doing? It's May 31st!" he says, as if he's just told me the due date of my own baby, or, for him, the day the World Cup starts. He continues, exasperated "I have to take them. Earlier the line was too long." I am dumbstruck. "Our taxes are due today? You never told me!" "I have to tell you when taxes are due?" he starts laughing, the wrong thing to do to a very pregnant woman at midnight, after she's just had what may arguably be her last night of theatrical freedom for 18 years (or judging by certain French mothers I've encountered-ahem-for the child's lifetime). I snap back "Okay Mr, Smarty Pants (p.s. you can't say the French equivalent of this and have the same effect, I realize now since it only made him laugh more) when are taxes due in America?" Blank stare.

Jump ahead - I went with him, because I wanted to see for myself. At midnight, we got in the car and drove to another part of the city, looking for a one-way, one-lane street that I had NEVER heard of in all my travels in 5 years in Nice, not on foot or bike or bus. Suddenly he did a U-turn in the middle of Blvd General de Gaulle - and turned down what looked like an alley - and there, lo and behold, was a line of red brake lights. I let out a low whistle. My French husband was triumphant in his vindication. May 31st, midnight, and the city of Nice was turning out for the Tax Man. People were jumping out of their cars and running up to the bldg to deposit their envelopes. The atmosphere was congenial, almost festive. Thomas explained that earlier, up until 11 pm, a man stands on the sidewalk with a big canvas sack, and people just drop the envelopes thru their car windows, since the street offers no parking. This method of keeping the traffic flowing is so goofy for something so serious as taxes, and yet, so logical, practical and efficient, that I can hardly believe it is happenning in France, country notorious for all that is inefficient and cumbersome. Apparently by midnight, the Sack Man has seen enough of a drop in the need for his services that he's gone for a glass of wine.

All in all, a surreal experience.