Tell Me Why, I Don't Like Thursdays

Thursday used to be the best day of my week. 

In university I rarely scheduled classes on Fridays, and even when I did, my roommates didn't, so you can imagine that Thursday nights were always loaded with activities that did not require anyone to be up first thing the next morning.  (Like grocery shopping and going to step class, in case my mom is reading this.)

When I worked in Toronto one summer we played baseball on Centre Island every Wednesday after work, so Thursdays were days of much camaraderie, jesting and winking nods about how much double-cheese-triple-hot-pepper pizza we'd all eaten after the game the evening before. 

Back in Windsor in the early part of the millennium, I discovered ultimate Frisbee.  I can't remember what night we always played, but no matter -- Thursday was either the day after our battles of blood, sweat and beers, or the prelude to pick-up hockey on Friday nights.

Nope, never a dull moment on Thursdays.

Life is slower here in Dijon, and of course we have young kids.  And Thursday has become a very deflating day when I must face a long and sad stretch of time before the next garbage pickup.

You see, on Sunday nights Shawn puts out the garbage; on Mondays the truck picks up, arriving while we are having breakfast.  We wave and say bonjour, and the men in bright green say bonjour back to us.  Everyone smiles and is happy.

On Tuesday nights Shawn puts out the recycling, and on Wednesdays during breakfast the same truck -- you heard me, the SAME truck with the same green men!  -- picks up the cans and paper and cardboard (but not glass), and we say our good mornings and everyone is as pleasant as can be.

Wednesday nights Shawn once again puts out the garbage, for there is collection twice a week, and Thursdays during breakfast we talk to the garbage men again.  By this time of the week we are giddy with delight, the kids and I are, and the men are laughing before they even reach our dining room window.

Ah!  That's it!  It's the windows.  It's these great big windows we have here in Dijon, with no screens: we just stick our heads right out into our narrow street and watch the truck approach at top speed.  Then we quickly stick our heads back in as the large, white camion deschets ROARS within six inches of our lives.

At first I was shy about standing at the window with Shawn, video camera at the ready.  I received stares.  Did the men wonder why the hell I was racing to capture them on film every other day?

Once I brought Annabeth into the action, however, the men seemed to understand that it was all just fun for my kids, and they quickly warmed up to us and our weird tourist habits.  They talk to Shawn in French and he talks back, and they play coucou, c'est moi with Annabeth as I hold her up and parade her from one window to the next, following them and bidding them adieu and wishing them a good day and-

-Good God, what the hell is wrong with me????

Oh yeah, now I remember.  Sigh.  It's a Thursday.

[stay tuned for photos of this and other wonders of our tiny street]