My Grape Year: (The Grape Series #1)

by Laura Bradbury

  “It’s lovely.”

  “It is a much higher elevation, and the wine they produce here is quite different. These villages are different too. A little more…how do you say it? Rough around the edges? Less sophisticated. More authentic.” Julien was a valuable tour guide, especially as he had forgotten about his vow not to speak English to me.

  Monsieur Beaupre finally slowed down, probably because there were some children tooling around on bikes on the road, just after the red, white, and black sign that marked the entrance to Villers-la-Faye.

  We turned up a street where there were more children and a cluster of three people—who looked closer to my age and were smoking cigarettes—in front of a brown wooden gate, across the street from a tiny boulangerie. I stared at them. There was a striking girl with long black hair and a short man who looked a few years older than me.

  My gaze, though, was drawn to a taller man leaning his back against the gate. He was wearing a denim jacket, and his close-cropped dark hair gave me a clear view into his eyes. They met mine and didn’t look away. His eyes seemed to be smiling at me even though his mouth merely twitched. At the top of the hill, I looked over my shoulder and out the rear window of the car. He was still watching. I sat back against the seat of the car, my cheeks burning. It felt like a cage of butterflies had been released in my stomach. I fought the absurd urge to shout at Monsieur Beaupre to stop the car. Don’t be ridiculous Laura. You will never see those people again. None of your host families live anywhere near Villers-la-Faye. It’s just your overactive imagination…

  Monsieur Beaupre was chastised about the rear view mirror by Madame clear to the far side of the village. She stopped only when he parked in front of a large building with la Maison des Hautes Côtes written in cursive on a large sign outside.

  “Here we are!” Monsieur declared and hopped out of the car.

  Inside the building we were welcomed by the hostess and led into a darker room with curved stone ceilings.

  “This is a wine cellar,” Julien explained to me. “Have you ever eaten in a wine cellar before?”

  “I’ve never been in a wine cellar before.”

  We were given seats at one end of the longest, biggest table I had ever seen. It belonged in a medieval chateau or something.

  “You see?” Julien said. “Communal tables. Very rustic.”

  I couldn’t make much sense of the menu, so asked Julien what he recommended.

  He frowned at the menu, his concentration deep. “Escargots!” he said, finally. “You are in Burgundy. You must have snails!”

  I recoiled. “Must I?”

  “Ah oui!” Madame Beaupre chimed in, then rattled on, saying something to the effect that snails were delicious; or she could have been informing me that snails were hermaphrodites. She was talking so fast, I honestly didn’t think I would have been able to tell the difference.

  “So, snails are the local specialty?” I asked Julien.

  “Oui. There are no snails in the world as delectable as Burgundian snails. You simply must try them.”

  Oh God. Here was the moment of truth I had been dreading since learning I was coming to France; I was going to have to eat something disgusting. I sent up a prayer that I wouldn’t vomit.

  I figured it couldn’t get much worse than snails, so I just let Julien order my entire meal for me. I was exceedingly grateful to see a large earthenware pitcher of what appeared to be red wine land on the table.

  Next, the waitress brought us all strange-looking utensils. They resembled the metal clamps used during abdominal surgery in the Middle Ages.

  Monsieur Beaupre became animated as he held his clamp up to demonstrate how it opened and closed.

  “You see?” he said. “For the eating of the escargots.”

  So I had to capture the snails and trap them with these clamp thingies? Dear God, maybe they weren’t even dead when they brought them to us. They might expect me to kill them too.

  Luckily the light was so dim in the wine cellar—which was lit only by large torch-like candles mounted on the curved stone walls—that nobody noticed even though I could feel all the blood draining from my face. My wineglass was filled and I drained it at record speed.

  Soon the waitress brought us each a circular tray containing twelve piping-hot snail shells. The air was redolent of garlic and parsley. They smelled good…good if I didn’t think about the fact that they were snails. At least if they’re this hot, they must be dead…surely?

  My thoughts inevitably travelled to the massive banana slugs that emerged from the dirt before a rainfall back home. They squished and popped under my shoe whenever I stepped on one by accident. I swallowed hard.

  “The escargots they serve in this restaurant are huge,” Julien said, a smile from ear to ear.

  “That’s a good thing?”

  “The best thing,” Julien confirmed.

  Monsieur Beaupre mimed how I needed to clamp on to the shell with my pinchers and then use the tiny fork to extract the creature inside. He pulled out a shriveled gray thing, which he dabbed in the sauce that had spilled in the ceramic plate below and popped into his mouth.

  “Délicieux!” he declared. “Your turn.”

  I followed his example, but took my time in the hope that they would lose interest in watching me eat my first snail. That was not to be. I finally managed to extract my snail from its shell.

  “Dip it in the sauce,” Julien suggested. I gave my snail a few desultory dabs in the melted parsley garlic butter.

  They were still watching. I was riveting entertainment, apparently. Waiting would just make it worse. The only way out of this thing was through.

  I closed my eyes and, trying very hard not to grimace, popped the snail into my mouth.

  The flavors of garlic and freshly snipped parsley and creamy melted butter distracted me to the point where I bit down on the snail, giving these flavors a satisfying meaty edge.

  “Oh my God,” I muttered to myself, my eyes flying open. “I think I actually like snails.”

  I swallowed. “C’est très bon!” I smiled at my host family members who were all watching me with expressions of delight. I felt like I had just passed a crucial test. My parents were going to be shocked when I told them during our next phone call. Maybe I wasn’t a picky eater after all. Maybe I was just never surrounded by delicious enough food…until now.

  I polished off my dozen escargots in record time, and after that the meal continued to be yet another orgy of pleasure.

  Next came a plate filled with boeuf Bourguignon—beef stewed in a red wine sauce, another local specialty Julien informed me. The meat was so tender that it fell apart as I tried to fork it up, and the sauce was earthy and satisfying and homemade buttered noodles and toasted baguette slices rubbed with butter and fresh garlic were provided to soak it all up.

  Next came the most massive cheese platter I had ever seen, so extensive that it had to be rolled over on a trolley. I let Monsieur Beaupre choose a generous selection of cheeses for me, one in particular that he called Comté and urged me to nibble while sipping the earthy, strong house red that flowed liberally. The flavors complemented each other beautifully. Then came a creamy Camembert from Normandy, an aged goat’s milk cheese, and several more whose names I couldn’t remember but which were equally delicious.

  Lastly, chilled dessert cups, each filled with the darkest, deepest chocolate mousse I had ever seen and topped with a dollop of whipped cream were placed in front of us.

  I extracted my first spoonful and let it melt on my tongue. It was more chocolaty than sweet, and so satisfying.

  The Beaupres took obvious and explicit pleasure in eating, and they seemed overjoyed this was a pleasure they could share with me.

  By the time we got back in the car night had fallen. We were all in a contented, deeply relaxed mood.

  Monsieur Beaupre seemed to have completely forgotten about his rear view mirror, and as we drove back through the now-deserted streets of Villers-la-F
aye, Madame didn’t even chastise him for his speed.

  I was hoping to catch another glimpse of the group of young people, but they had vanished. I felt a pang of disappointment. It must have been because I missed my friends back home. I would be starting school in three days, I reasoned. There I would make some friends of my own.

  CHAPTER 7

  I woke up early for my first day of school. I tried to think positively and remember lessons from Dale Carnegie’s book How to Win Friends and Influence People, which my father had made me read when I was ten. Inside, though, I dreaded leaving my French family cocoon to strike out into uncharted waters. I had always been shy, but after reading Dale Carnegie, it dawned on me that shyness wasn’t valued in North American culture. I developed an extroverted shell and hid my real self. The reality remained, however, that nothing drained me faster than acting outgoing.

  Madame Beaupre was going to drive me to school. As I gave Biscotte an au revoir pat, Julien explained to me that normally I would take the bus, as all the other high-school-aged children from Nuits-Saint-Georges did, and as he had up until four years earlier when he’d passed his bac. Madame wanted to escort me on my first day though, to be sure I found my way and didn’t end up wandering aimlessly around Beaune.

  The drive to Beaune was only twenty minutes from Nuits-Saint-Georges, but I hadn’t seen the village yet. I’d read, however, that it was a stunningly preserved, fortified medieval town, which also happened to be the spiritual, cultural, and economic heart of the winemaking trade in Burgundy. Sounded promising.

  As we drove along, I watched Madame’s perfectly manicured hands shifting the gearshift of her sporty Peugeot with ease.

  After about fifteen minutes the traffic began to thicken and the vineyards were replaced with boxy, newer-looking buildings, which eventually gave way to older stone fronts. A miniature Arc de Triomphe appeared in front of us. Cars drove underneath it in both directions. We turned right before we reached it though, then a sharp right again into a parking lot clogged with cars, most of them honking.

  As far as I could tell, the parking lot was complete anarchy. Thank God one of the Ursus rules for exchange students was “No Driving.” Even though I’d had my license since the day I turned sixteen, I had absolutely no desire to drive amongst all these crazy French people.

  Madame, however, looked completely cool as she shifted gears and parked her car up on the sidewalk. The undercarriage scraped against the curb in an alarming fashion. Car repair would be an excellent career choice in France. I followed her across the parking lot, paying close attention to how she strolled with utter nonchalance in front of moving cars and smiled beatifically at all the drivers.

  She slowed down a bit to wait for me. “Nerveuse?” she asked me, which I actually understood.

  I shrugged. “Un peu.” A little. That was a lie. I was a lot nervous.

  She slid her arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. “C’est normale, ma puce.”

  I reminded myself again to look up in my pocket dictionary what “ma puce” meant. She often called me that in the same tone my parents used to call me “sweetie” or “honey.”

  We walked through the school grounds, which were rather shabby and, disconcertingly, featured many statues of the Virgin Mary and large crosses. Having been brought up in a lapsed Anglican household, I knew less than nothing about religious things, especially Catholic things. Was I supposed to genuflect at some point, or sprinkle holy water on myself or perform some other mysterious ritual?

  We entered the far end of the building and turned into an office at the end of the hall.

  We sat in the empty chairs and waited. I had no idea who we were waiting for, but Madame Beaupre seemed to know what she was doing.

  A few minutes passed before a figure in black burst into the room, full of apologies. It wasn’t until she took her seat behind the desk that I digested the fact I was sitting across from a real-life nun. She wore a shapeless black robe, inset with a white panel running down the front. It was accessorized with only a massive wooden cross on a piece of twine around her neck and a little necklace of beads hanging off the thicker rope encircling her waist. A rosary?

  Thank God she wasn’t wearing one of those wimple things. I would have been questioning if I had unwittingly landed in a re-enactment of The Sound of Music.

  Madame Beaupre reached out and shook her hand. “Bonjour, ma soeur.”

  Sister? That’s right. Nuns are called sisters.

  How did an agnostic Canadian greet a nun? Madame introduced me and I stuck out my hand. The nun raised her eyebrows, but shook it.

  She urged us to sit down and slid a pile of papers over to Madame Beaupre for her to fill out. She kept pointing out spots where I needed to sign too. I passed the nun my passport, which she passed off to some underling—maybe a nun-in-training?—to photocopy.

  The nun gave me a sheet of paper with a list of what looked like foreign-sounding school supplies, none of which I had in my backpack, which contained only a pencil case and a clipboard with lined paper.

  Another sheet was placed in my hands. This one looked like a timetable, with courses like mathématiques, philosophie, letters modernes, etc. printed in a grid.

  I realized that the nun had been asking me a question while I had been trying to decipher what was written on my piece of paper. She repeated it again, but I had no idea what she was saying. I looked at Madame Beaupre for help, shrugging an apology.

  She repeated the word “bac” several times and then used the longer form “baccalauréat,” until I figured out she was asking me if I wanted to write the French exams at the end of the year.

  I most certainly did not. I’d worked hard during my last two years of high school. My course load had been full (even with the French class I’d dropped) and I’d taken six advanced placement courses. I’d worked on Saturdays and during vacations since I was twelve years old at a ladies clothing store downtown, first in the stock room and, from the time I was fourteen, as a salesperson on the floor. This year in France was the reward I had been working towards all those years. I refused to sign on for another year of intense studying. School this time around was about meeting people my age. It was merely a means to an end.

  “No bac,” I said. I wanted to expand on this and explain my reasoning but unfortunately didn’t know the words.

  The truth was my primary goals were to go to a lot of cafés, drink wine, fall in love, and learn French—not necessarily in that order. After giving it some thought, I decided that even if I was miraculously able to speak French, it was probably wise not to share those goals with the nuns. The only subject I was truly excited about at school was English. It was a life-long fantasy of mine to attend a foreign language class and to effortlessly do well. I spent many a French class back in Victoria fantasizing about that. I glanced down at my timetable to see “anglais” marked in the grid three times during the week. I chuckled inwardly. Me in an English class? Awesome.

  The nun frowned at me. “Pas de bac? Are you sure?”

  “Oui,” I answered.

  She stared at me some more, but finally nodded and wrote something down on the papers in front of her.

  My BC high school diploma, my driver’s license, and my Grade 12 report card were all taken to the photocopier. Just when I began to believe that we would be spending the whole day in the nun’s office, she stood up and motioned for us to follow her.

  We climbed a staircase that, judging from the looks of its dirty white paint and splintering wooden steps, had seen better days. At the top, the nun opened a door to a classroom. It was packed full of desks, and at least twenty-five French faces turned to examine me. French high school students apparently missed the memo about it being rude to stare. They looked me up and down, exchanged questioning glances with each other, and then went back to more blatant staring. I wasn’t the type of girl that was stared at in high school. In looks and behavior I specialized in middle-of-the-road, likeable but not riveting.
I squirmed under their collective gaze. The nun rattled something to the rotund, perspiring teacher at the front of the class. I caught “Canadienne” and “Ursus.” He pointed to an empty desk at the front and center of the classroom that, quelle surprise, no one else had deemed fit to claim.

  Madame Beaupre squeezed my hand and whispered in my ear something about picking me up after school. I could tell she was nervous about leaving me, but I gave her a confident smile so as to appear the absolute opposite of how I felt.

  I made my way over to the seat, feeling all eyes on me. I opened my backpack and extracted my pencil case.

  “Est-ce que tu as un cahier?” the teacher asked me.

  Shit. Un cahier? What the hell was a cahier? Unless it could be contained in my pencil case, I was pretty certain I didn’t have one. I shook my head. The teacher frowned at me. I pulled out my clipboard.

  “Tu auras besoin d’un cahier.” He sighed, already fed up with me.

  I was so lost that I couldn’t even figure out what class he was teaching. I snuck a look at the timetable. Histoire. History. OK. That was a start.

  The other students were feverishly taking notes, writing so fast that they barely looked up or at me, thank God. How could I take notes if I didn’t understand a word? I began to doodle 3D cubes, a constellation of stars, then hearts.

  The teacher walked over to my desk and raised a brow at my artwork. Maybe doodling wasn’t a good idea. I decided to mark down odd words I could catch to look up in the dictionary later that night. It was deceptively difficult, like catching grasshoppers.

  Although the course seemed to last a long time, at the end of it I had a list of only five words. I was doubtful whether I had heard and written even those down correctly. Before I got up, the teacher dropped a heavy textbook onto my desk and asked me a question in French.

  “Oui,” I answered, even though I had no idea what he had asked. I concluded that 90 percent of the time oui was a decent answer. Ten percent of the time it was surely a disastrous answer, but I liked my chances.