Patriot Act Fallout: More Americans Giving Up Citizenship

My run-in with the so-called Patriot Act began with a leaky roof. 


I'd been told that "all old houses in France leak," so I wasn't shocked when water began flowing into the house from my lovely roof terrace. It need to be fixed. 


About two months ago, I started trying to transfer a few thousand dollars to France for the repairs. I called the currency trading company in London that helped me transfer money to buy my house, Currencies Direct, and was told rather brusquely that they no longer worked with American clients. Apparently, last November, some measure within the Patriot Act took effect that barred the transfer of funds. Or made it impossibly cumbersome and potentially risky for currency traders. At least that's what I was told. To move the money, I'd have to prove I "lived" in France. My bank in Texas also was reluctant to wire the funds -- despite the fact that I needed less than $10,000 and I've been an excellent customer for about a decade.  


Ultimately, I figured it out but the experience made it clear that the U.S. Government is seriously tightening the screws on the freedom of its citizens.  I found the experience more than just a nuisance, I found it frightening.  So I was not surprised when the New York Times ran a story today describing the myriad problems that are so serious they're causing expatriate Americans to renounce their citizenship.  The article says expats are taking such a dramatic step based on financial issues, not politics.  I'm not so sure. What is clear is that there is a lot of confusion and fear among American expatriates and even those, like me, who live only part of the year abroad. And it is clear that the Treasury Department is ignoring official requests for relief for Americans living abroad. I wonder why?


I'd be very curious to know what other people are experiencing. Are you having trouble with your U.S. bank, with transferring funds?  What are you hearing about the experience of others? 

Sunday, market day

Sunday morning is no time for lazing about. Sunday is flea market day, and the goal is to get out the door after one small coffee for a morning drive to some nearby village and eager vendors with all sorts of fascinating things to sell. There are several kinds of outdoor flea markets, fancy schmancy antiquity markets, more modest brocantes and the truly modest vide greniers. Brocantes can be fancy or modest, large and small, with everything from beautiful carved bonnetiere to old faience and ancient tools.   Vide Greniers -- literally, emptying the granary -- are closer to what Americans might think of as a neighborhood yard sale but with vendors whose families may have been in the neighborhood for centuries, collecting some pretty wonderful old stuff the entire time.  Vide Greniers are much less pricey than the other fleas and I've bought everything from a used iron for 1 euro to fine  hand-embroidered linen pillow cases that would cost four times more in a brocante. 

Professional antique dealers with fancy shops get to the brocantes and vide greniers early before things have been picked over and the heat of the day has set in. In the summer, tourists start pouring in around 10 so the goal is to get there around 8, earlier for some markets like Villeneuve-les-Avignon where everything is out and buyers already are negotiating full force by 7.

Every market has its own style and feeling and every object has its story so just asking, "what's this?" can generate an entire history lesson or a glimpse into an mostly forgotten way of life.  Last weekend I saw my first silk bobbins, lovely carved wooden arcs of less than 3 inches shaped like waves. I purchased two with colorful silk thread still wound tight and ready for use in making a pinafore or bustled skirt. The bobbins date from the Industrial Revolution and when I asked about them I was lucky enough to hear a long history of the silk trade, the worms raised in the Ardeche and the flourishing 18th century silk industry in Lyons.

Often, I just wander through the markets listening to conversations and watching the interactions between buyers and sellers, couples, friends and families, all out shopping for the day.  But if I'm not careful, I also can wind up with an empty wallet by late Sunday afternoon.  So last weekend I set of goal of not spending for any single object more than I'd spend on seeing a movie. Here's what I brought home.  Christmas presents?  Perhaps, if I can bear to part with them.  

A tiny, perfect porcelain vase made in Limoges.  My friend Guy said it was for a "rose d'amour."  He was making fun of me, but I think he's right.  It's just perfect for a single, tiny tea rose from someone you love.

A funky, handpainted souvenir, probably from the 1920's and found here:

There were two, and the other one said "Souvenir de Monte Carlo."

Six yards of 19th century, handmade lace.  I've been buying a lot of lace lately and am going to do a future post on what I've learned. Regardless, it's just so pretty. Stitch this on anything and it would be elegant.

A plastic piggy bank in the form of a French post-office box.  A dealer threw this in as a gift with another small purchase. Very silly.  Love it.

A pretty glass bottle with tiny red flowers painted in relief around its fat belly and a bright green line around the rim, like a choker around a pretty girl's neck.

A tiny Berger pitcher, big enough for a Pastis for one. 

A hand-painted, blue and white vase from Moustiers, with a bird on one side, a musician and bird on the other and little bees and flowers on the top.

A pair of 18th century cast-iron locks from an old commode or armoire. I dug through a large tin box containing dozens of other patterns before I picked this one. They were all pretty and I learned you can use these locks to help date a piece of furniture.  I'm going back to that antique hardware vendor -- an woman of about 85 in a well-used straw hat who drives a hard bargain -- to learn more about the lovely locks she sells.

A tart baking dish from Luneville, which has been making faience in this same pattern for about 300 years. The mark on this one, which looks brand new, is from around 1922 -- which is new by brocante standards.

With all of these objects and a few more on the back seat of the car, I drove home from the markets through a valley filled at every turn with wisteria and the first pale leaves of spring. An altogether satisfying Sunday.

A Sunday Drive in Early Spring

It has been an unusually cold and rainy spring here.  The mimosa on the village square that has usually lost its blooms by March has lasted all the way into mid-April. That tree is such a brilliant and definite yellow that since I first saw it, I've never been able to hear the word "yellow" without thinking of it.

I've been putting my vases of tulips and ranunculus on the windowsill at night to keep them fresh and turning the heaters on first thing in the morning before bundling up to go downstairs to make coffee. All around, the twisted branches of the plane trees and vines seem especially bare now that wildflowers are blooming at their feet and they seem ready to get dressed. By this time last year, the vines were fluffy with pale green leaves and I was sleeping with the windows thrown wide open.

So I and my friend visiting from Italy were especially grateful Sunday for a warm and sunny day that encouraged us to hit the road. The excuse were visits to the flea markets in Roix and Le Tour, but all along the way we meandered, stopping to admire an almond tree so white it seems to glow or shoot pictures of fields blanketed with eye-popping blue flowers that made me feel a little better about missing the bluebonnets this year in Texas (which, I hear, are stunning after a couple of pretty thin years).

Then, alarmingly, it was 1 p.m. and we were hungry and if you don't find a place to eat in southern France before they stop serving at 2 on Sunday then your options for food -- like those bluebonnets in years past -- are thin on the ground.  We raced for the nearest town, Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, which I normally try to avoid. Isle is a famous tourist destination and there are times in the summer when you hear more English spoken than French. The Sunday market is large and varied and includes a substantial number of antiques vendors, befitting a town whose economy is built on selling very nicely polished items at sky high prices. In the summer, you can't park, can't find a table for lunch, can't get through the crowds and anyway, why bother when there are so many wonderful places to go?  But this Sunday in Isle reminded me of why it became such a popular destination in the first place.

We ate beside the canal that encircles the island ("isle"), the water glass green, swiftly flowing and transparent, allowing a view of small fish and graceful water grasses.  The sun was warm, there were relatively few tourists, the crowd at the cafe was relaxed and lively, and as the vendors took down their tents and came in for lunch, the joking and wine increased in volume.  Then the music started, a committed accordionist of the old school providing drama, humor and the perfect soundtrack for this little piece of paradise.

Finally, it felt like spring.

A drunk of discerning taste

I'm quite sure I'm not supposed to enjoy the advances of an anonymous drunk, particularly when he's already "dans la jus," as they say, at 11 on a Thursday morning and he's speaking to me rather loudly across a parking lot. And there is just no doubt about his state since the wind coming from his direction is saturated and I smell stale red wine even before I hear him and realize he's addressing me. But what he lacks in discretion, he makes up for in poetry. "Did you know you are beautiful, madame?" he asks, as I pass on the way to the car carrying a basket of vegetables and olive oil from the Nyons market.  "Yes, yes," he insists, "you are a woman of rare beauty. Rare beauty."  My birthday is later this week.  I'll take the compliment. I smile all the way to the edge of town.

Pictured here, my preferred tapenade vendors.  Worth a special trip in to the market on Thursdays.  Nyons is famous for anything olive -- olive oil, tapenade black and green, with garlic and without, olives cured in every fashion, in bags, bottles and boxes.  Yum.