Je n'existe pas

There comes a day in the life of every expatriate in France, when the words "Vous n'existez pas," are delivered by some kind-hearted (or not) French bureaucrat.

I was tired last night, and looking forward to crashing on my couch and reading Michener's Alaska, and going to bed early. I stumbled in the door, dropped all my stuff, and opened the fridge to get something to drink. The light wasn't on inside, and I groaned at the hassle of having to deal with a broken refrigerator. Then another thought crossed my mind...I tried the lights--nothing. I looked at my bedside clock--nothing.

On the way up, I had checked my mail, and there was a hand-written scrawled note from my power company that I couldn't read (due to bad hand-writing, not my lack of French), but I had assumed it was something about the power being cut off for a bit on some future date.

Not so much.

So, instead of curling up on my couch and spending a quiet evening with a book, I called around, found a friend with an empty guest room, and moved in for the night.

In the mess of trying solve what happened, today I heard the key words: "You don't exist." While the colloquial translation would be something like, "You're not in our system," hearing the phrase "Vous n'existez pas" is anything but encouraging.

So, I am without electricity until an unknown date, which is further complicated because I have to call to cancel it in two weeks, since I'm only there until Hallowe'en. Last night as I drove to Marie's, I had the premonition that I might have spent my last night in my apartment without knowing it.