My Date with Death

Just when I thought Life was getting cushiony, I now have the immense pleasure of facing Death every Thursday at 1 pm. Death comes in the form of a large, burly and gruff-voiced man named Jean* who wears a forest green welder's outfit lined with white, a very expensive watch and a thick, gold-chain necklace to accesorize his understated Grim Reaper look. Jean likes to burp and fart during our lessons, most of which he does in the adjacent room while preparing two cups of hot coffee spiked with methane. Yet he listens attentively and really tries to differentiate between "in" and "on" even though he always confuses them and will probably have Repetitive Stress Syndrome in his wrist from having to constantly flip through his notebook. Why is Jean Death, you ask? He works at a sterile, male-infested company that sits in a warehouse that sits at the farthest end of the industrial ports of Marseille so that, just to make my life more interesting, I have to call the company from the guard station and ask for someone to come pick me up. (This is already after a 30-minute hike to the bus, then a 15-minute bus ride.) Like Pluto's underworld, my river Styx is a boring drive along ugly hangars and warehouses. In the morning, that is. When Jean takes me in the afternoon, I strap in my seatbelt and hold on for life, searching for comfort in the miniature Horton elephant that sits on his dashboard. Who said Death didn't have a sense of humor. The next 2 minutes we are flying (today he drove 95 km in a 30 km zone) past buildings, overtaking slow trucks, skirting past speedbumps, and squealing around roundabouts. Dear Lord. When we get to the top of the hill and I thank him for the ride, I have usually given myself the biggest wedgie which I then gracefully wait to pick once I have reached the bus stop IF I am even able to walk. To wrap up this atypical blog, it certainly makes Life more exciting to wonder if every Thursday I'll die or not, seated next to Jean the flatulent guido welder. *name change