by Bobbi French
So I thank whatever is up there for every moment I have spent with him and I thank him for his peaceful soul. I’ll be hanging on to him like he was the last teak lounger on the Lido deck of the Titanic. It is a miracle that he loves me, it is a miracle that he puts up with me. Maybe it’s a miracle when anybody loves anyone. What I do know is that my miracle has been loving him. Now if only I could train him to use the laundry hamper.
FRANCE? POURQUOI?
As we prepare to leave, everyone I run into these days asks the same thing, why France? And it’s a good question. It’s not like we spun a globe, closed our eyes and pointed. Maybe it is somewhat impulsive to run away from your life, but it wasn’t all madness without method.
When I first met Neil I was so impressed by his travels. He’d been on a safari tour in Africa; I’d been to a zoo in Toronto. He did his last year of high school in the south of France; I once went to a Canadiens game in Montreal. He lived for a year in Spain; I ate Mexican food at Zapata’s on Bates Hill in St. John’s. He drove across America in a beater truck with his buddy Steve; I once drove three hours from St. John’s to Marystown in fog so thick you could lean on it. My single major travel experience had been a trip to England with my grandmother when I was 16. From that moment on I knew I wanted to see Europe but somehow my life was always in the way.
When Neil and I first went to Italy in 2007, I was completely undone by it all—the cuisine, the history and the pace of life. But for me it was something deeper than museums and cathedrals. I knew that I belonged in Europe. I was convinced that I had been living someone else’s life and that every woman I saw in Europe was living mine. I knew I needed to return as soon as I could. We came home, took Italian lessons, bought Italian cookbooks and fantasized constantly about living la dolce vita someday.
We were planning our third Italian vacation when, while watching a movie set in the French town where Neil went to school, he said, “You know, I’d like to go back to France.” Holy mackerel man, pick a language. I already knew how to order a lot of food in Italian, plus I had most of the vulgar hand gestures just right. But I wasn’t about to turn down the chance to see another European country. I dusted off the very little French I knew and we began our yearly quest for discounted plane tickets.
I loved France as much as I loved Italy. For me, Rome was passion and pandemonium while Paris was restrained sophistication. The rural areas were breathtaking as expected. And as we had done in Italy, we rented a small village house and spent four weeks living as locals. Like always, we came home to our busy lives and had dreamy bedtime chats about a new life in Europe that ended with wistful sighs and an alarm clock set for the next day.
After our first vacation in France I was finally inspired enough to wade through the paperwork required for my UK passport, a privilege granted by my dad’s birth in Surrey, which also conveniently makes me an EU citizen. The day it arrived I was positively euphoric. I nearly drove Neil to distraction as I spent an entire weekend pretending I was Jason Bourne. It was then that the idea of moving really started cooking. With the passport I could live anywhere in the European Union and drag my poor one passport spouse with me.
Suddenly, the fantasy of a life in Europe took on a tinge of reality and we began talking more and more about where we would settle someday when we finally won the lottery. We knew that we wouldn’t want to live anywhere we hadn’t actually seen and the tickets for a second trip to France were booked. Neil already spoke French quite well and there were other practical considerations like France’s highly regarded health care system. Italy had always been the focus of our dreams, but I’d decided I couldn’t live there as long as Berlusconi was running the show. The man actually said, “Mussolini never killed anyone, he just sent dissenters abroad for vacation.” The same man who also advised investment in Italy because “we have beautiful secretaries, really superb girls,” but I digress. So we decided to use our vacation in Burgundy as a recon mission (a term I learned in the espionage training reserved for people with more than one passport) for a move someday far off in the future when everything was right.
So there we were in the small medieval town of Semur-en-Auxois, about 270 kilometers southeast of Paris, chosen solely based on a pretty vacation house I’d unearthed after countless hours of searching online. The sun was shining, the town was charming and the locals welcoming. For three days it was perfect. Then the skies grew dark, the rain fell and the temperature plummeted to ten degrees and stayed there for two weeks. When the sun finally made a brief reappearance I raced to the terrace with my book and a big glass of wine. I had just settled for a little vie en rose when a young woman ambled down the drive. She was an English woman who managed a vacation property in the town. We’d had some email exchanges with her a few months before and she was dropping by just to say hello. We got to chatting about the many renovations we’d done in Canada, our interest in property and our dream of someday living in Europe. I noticed a peculiar expression on her face while we were talking, like she was clicking through something in her mind, but I thought nothing of it at the time. We shared the wine and said our goodbyes.
Over the next two weeks we had one problem after another. The cold, wet weather continued. Every day I wore the same ugly sweater I’d thankfully brought as an afterthought to protect my computer. The septic tank at the house failed creating a pervasive sewer-like odour that was starting to seep into our skin. The bed was like a rock. Every morning, a symphony of critters in the attic performed steadily from two a.m. until dawn. When the roof started leaking and we became overrun with ants, we thought all this mess was a sign that maybe Semur didn’t suit us. Now having been immersed in science for most of my life, signs and fate and all that have never been big for me. But every now and then you have to stop and pay attention, just slow down and listen.
In the midst of things going from bad to worse, we got a call from the lovely English woman who said she and her business associate would like to get together to chat about what they do in France. As it turned out, their vacation property management business was overrun with clients and they’d been planning to launch a search for a couple to help expand their business. They pitched it to us as they felt we were just the people they were looking for and that they couldn’t imagine a better fit for them. We would start by maintaining and marketing vacation houses in our area then gradually move into conducting property searches and full-scale renovations for Francophiles with money to burn. They were even looking for someone to help with branding and marketing, which happens to be Neil’s area of expertise. Hmm. What were the odds? Neil’s work was relatively portable with a manageable level of difficulty. We had no kids to consider. I was smack in the middle of some sort of mid-life burnout mayhem. Plus, I had the passport. It felt like all the stars were aligning to show the path to a new life.
Of course, because I wanted this so badly, I started thinking about all the reasons not to do it. I don’t have enough money saved. We just bought a house we love and it’s in the middle of a full-scale renovation. I don’t speak French very well, the understatement of the year. I don’t like escargot or really smelly cheese. I don’t have what it takes to start over at 42. Neil will run away with an exotic French woman, leaving me homeless in the cobblestone streets of France. Once it got this ridiculous, I moved into what-the-hell mode. When will I ever get a chance like this again? We’ll go. If it’s horrible, we’ll come back and start over. I had no other employment options other than to do the same thing I’d been doing, just in a different place. Not appealing. Sure, we’d have no house and no possessions if it went belly-up but what else was there to lose?
So, after more discussion with the Brits and some significant soul searching in my kitchen, I made the commitment to give it all up and return in the fall to see what was waiting for me in this strange place. The very long answer to the question is while all roads lead to Rome, all signs point to France.
A LIFE FOR SALE,
GOING CHEAP
As a friend of mine was browsing around our living room, she asked if I was struggling with relinquishing anything, and it got me to thinking. My first thought was how can two people possibly have so much stuff? We have three televisions, two cars, dishes we never use, furniture we only look at and a garage full of every tool imaginable including a power-washer thing that could take the paint off a ship. My second thought was to wonder to what extent my life was defined by my things and whether I was truly at peace with pulling away.
I’ve never been very sentimental when it comes to material things, but as I looked around my house I was surprised to find a memory attached to just about everything. I looked at my Danish mid-century modern teak dining set and remembered the months and months of obsessively combing the Internet until I found it on eBay about three o’clock one winter morning. I had it shipped right across Canada and not a day went by that I didn’t admire its beauty. But it costs more to ship it than I paid for it and I have to let it go. It’s off to my friend’s stylish condo and she will sit and eat dinner with her daughters and sip wine with her friends and I know she’ll love it. Then I unearthed all the Christmas ornaments I spent years accumulating. I sat there holding each one, desperately trying to decide if they were worth the effort. In the end, ruthless purging prevailed and I let them go as well. It was surprisingly comforting to know that so many of our things will be in the homes of people we love. It was surprisingly comforting to know that so many of our things will be in the homes of people we love.
After our friends finished looting our home we still had half a houseful of stuff, so we listed everything on a local buy-and-sell website. By eight a.m. the next day we had a dozen responses from the same person who finally put it together that all the items were at one house. A couple of hours later I watched from the window as a woman, for whom the word fabulous was clearly invented, arrived in a taxi. She raced up the steps and burst through the door, larger than life, a tornado of hair and heels and rock star attire. She clicked around the house saying, “I’ll take that and that and this, ooh and that, how much for this?” In the space of 15 minutes she’d bought everything we had, gave us $1000 in cash as a deposit and dashed out to the waiting cab. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen. We stood in the porch gaping at each other, wondering what the hell had just happened. I later learned that this dynamo was emerging from a very dark and difficult period in her life. She too was making a fresh start and was incredibly grateful to have our things define her new life.
Now we own clothing, a mattress, a few pieces of art, some miscellaneous kitchen items, cameras and our computers. It’s an incredible experience to relinquish all the things you own. I didn’t quite know how I would feel but I think I feel lighter, free to move about the world at a moment’s notice, a nomad of the planet, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. Is coming unglued the same as being detached?
LIVING IN A
FOREIGN LANGUAGE
Whenever I tell someone about the impending exodus, after the bewildered facial expression fades, they invariably ask, “Do you speak French?” “Oh enough to get by,” I say. Sure, enough to order a bottle of 2007 Meursault and a sautéed duck breast although not enough to know that I once ordered the thymus glands of a calf. Of all the things to be concerned with, and there are many, this is the one on my mind at all times. I imagine myself at a party standing alone in a corner, mute and forlorn or, more importantly, unable to communicate in an emergency. Scary.
I’m particularly concerned about this because there are few things in life that I love more than language. I remember reading the same books over and over when I was a kid, thinking it was the best entertainment ever designed. I’m still a ferocious reader, consuming books in a single sitting and staying up all night just to see how an author has woven phrases into a tale. I love words. Jokes, puns, double entendres, the lot. And as for chatting, I could be world champion as soon as my mother retires.
Now the teachings of Buddhism say not to speak unless it improves on silence but anyone who knows anyone in my family can attest to the fact that we feel non-stop yakkety-yak improves any situation. What can I say? It’s cultural. I’m Canadian but I don’t speak fluent French, the shame of it all. But I’m a Newfoundlander first, and on the Rock, language is sacred. We have an ancient dialect that is formally studied and researched. We’re the Latins of Canada. We speak with passion and drama and there is much expression and gesturing, yet we have an economy of language that is unmatched. Also, if you can’t weave a good yarn (translation: tell an entertaining story) you get voted off the island and have to move to Alberta. We are famous for our ranting and roaring (well, Rick Mercer is famous for it), for our phrases and colloquialisms, and it’s the thing I miss most about my home.
I abandoned French in Grade 9 because my teacher was less than likeable and besides I was never going to work for Air Canada, so why bother? I’ve resisted it over the years for different reasons. I was too busy for starters and perhaps too politically opposed to the whole “Quebec is the only distinct culture in Canada” nonsense. Here’s distinct: try understanding a fisherman from the Burin Peninsula sometime. I certainly can’t. But mostly I didn’t learn French because I just didn’t need to, nor did I have any desire to. After studying Spanish in university, a language that sounds like music to me, French sounded contrived and haughty, like, “I will stoop to speak with you but only because I must.” I can roll a Spanish R like Antonio Banderas but I never seem to manage that French back-of-the throat R without hacking up something that I fear will land on someone’s face.
But now I have no choice. There is very little English spoken in rural France so off to class I go, three hours every Thursday morning until we leave, then on to lessons with a lovely woman in Semur who has agreed to take me on. I hope she can translate “oh me nerves missus, you got me drove.”
FRENCH FOR DUMMIES
I wonder if it’s too late to call this whole thing off because I’m not sure I can go on with this madness. I’ve just finished my first French class with not an English word spoken for three hours. The good news is that I’m second in my class in terms of skill and finesse. The bad news is that there are only two people in my class: a sweet 15-year-old boy preparing to spend a school year abroad, and me.
Based on an online test and a brief personal interview, I was placed at level six of a potential 16 levels. When I first learned this I thought, of course I’m at level six. I’ve been to France twice, I once successfully purchased cough medicine in France, my hairstylist is French, I’ve eaten thymus—I’m practically fluent. Not so. It turns out the problem is not that I can’t speak French. No, the problem is I can’t speak bloody English. The teacher and the boy were identifying predicates and conjunctive adverbs all over the place. Apparently the key to learning a second language is having a firm grasp of your first. If only I hadn’t spent Grade 9 English classes memorizing the lyrics for the entire Rebel Yell album. I couldn’t keep myself focused. Th
e very sweet teacher with her perfect Parisian accent asked me some question about something and the only thought in my head was I wonder if there are any muffins left at the bakery downstairs, followed swiftly by am I too old to wear shorts?
I suppose I have to give myself a break. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a classroom learning something completely new. But it’s also been a long time since I’ve felt completely useless at something, apart from cooking and math. You work at the same thing for a long time and you get really comfortable in the knowledge that you know what you’re doing. The key is to not panic. I can do this. Clearly the 15-year-old can do it.
But French is famously difficult and often seems illogical to me. The French words for vagina, uterus, ovary and feminism are actually masculine and the literal translation for the number 91 is four twenty eleven. I’m convinced people are locked away in castle towers all over the French countryside charged with nothing but the task of inventing new verb tenses. This might be harder than I thought. All I can hope for is when she asks me a question next week I don’t respond with, “Oui Mademoiselle, ash blonde highlights, think I can pull it off?”
MIND: GONE
JOURNEY: ON
Two months to go and on this very ordinary day I’ve officially passed the point of no return. Today I inactivated my medical licence and malpractice insurance. Now I’ve never been one to be attached to titles and hierarchy, all that “call me doctor” nonsense, but let’s face it, there is a weird prestige connected to the MD or PhD. Certainly I can imagine the pride my mother will feel knowing her daughter used to be a doctor but now cleans toilets in vacation houses in France. And there is that whole income thing. I weighed the options and considered keeping my licence as a backup plan, but the costs of maintaining everything are enormous. Just to be clear, there’s no pile of cash to finance my folly and I have to trim anywhere I can.
