Finding me in France

by Bobbi French

  FALLING IN LOVE

  AT LE CHEVAL ROUGE

  Already we’ve had the definitive French experience and no words can truly capture it. Like the time I stood before Botticelli’s Birth of Venus in Florence or after reading The Stone Diaries for the first time, I have stored it in my memory museum so that I can revisit it again and again. It was the absolute embodiment of why I wanted to come to France and everything I love about this amazing culture.

  Michel and Patricia graciously invited us to dine with them and a few friends at a local restaurant. Again, ecstasy then agony. What to wear? How not to speak rapid English while believing that perfect French is flowing out of my mouth? How to make sure I order something that doesn’t have brains in it? How to try all the wines and not be totally hammered before the first course? All this was swirling around my already busy melon for a couple of days. Of course the dinner was scheduled to begin at eight o’clock on the evening of the day of our moving debacle. I was exhausted and still recovering from the I-almost-lost-all-my-pants trauma.

  The lovely farmer collected us before we met up with the others. He said, “We are nine tonight,” and I started sweating. How the hell will I understand a word once they all get yakking top speed? I’ll be a completely drunk doofus, smiling, nodding and eating rare brains. We met everyone outside, Patricia and her three longtime girlfriends, a husband and son as well as the other son of Michel and Patricia, Gaëtan, a chic young man who greeted us in English, allowing me to exhale a little. A quick scan of the crowd revealed that I was dressed appropriately, thank you again gods of French etiquette.

  Le Cheval Rouge is a lovely little place attached to a large patio and bar owned by a woman about fifty, funky and French to the core, who knew this crowd well. Gesturing and talking at a wild pace, she handed out the extensive menus and I saw all the gastronomic treasures of Burgundy before me. While the food and wine were spectacular, the big love was to be found in the company.

  First the ladies. Patricia brought along her English dictionary and explained to her friends that they would need to talk slowly and they did, all night. They asked me questions about Canada and they complimented my hair. One of them thought the colour so lovely that she didn’t believe it was natural. They helped me order and best of all said I had little accent and that my French was quite good, liars all but still. They talked about their friendship that spanned over 40 years and they were charming beyond description. Their warmth and kindness was something to behold.

  Then the men. To my left, Philippe, identified to me as soon as I sat down as a farceur, and he was indeed hilarious in any language. He too talked very slowly to me all night and offered me tastes of his meal. Gaëtan spoke his newly learned English with Neil and was clearly taking an opportunity to make his father proud. Then there was Michel, seated at the head of the table, choosing and tasting the wine, suggesting what to order and taking the first bite of food: a sweet king holding court. He was beaming all night, so proud of his son speaking English with his foreign guests. He paid for the entire meal as a celebration of the end of the rental season of the house that we were so lucky to have found. He is a gentle giant and one of the loveliest men I have ever encountered.

  The lady who owns the restaurant served us all night and she was nothing short of a one-woman comedy show. Neil asked for his meat medium rare and she guffawed loudly and barked, “NON! You are in France now, there is no in between!” When I asked about the debate raging in France over retirement age and pensions, things got really exciting. The volume rose, the pace picked up, everyone was talking at once and gesturing madly, the young guys were rolling their eyes, it was fantastic. Neil winked at me across the table as we sat back and took it all in. The evening was so congenial, so full of laughter and bonhomie that by the end it had become one of the best of my life.

  At one point I had quietly asked Patricia if it was rude to taste food from one another or to use tu instead of vous. She gave me her huge smile and said that when with friends this is the thing to do. Then she said to me, “Et Bobbi, tu es avec tes amis”—you are with your friends. I don’t care how long it takes to get a bank account or that automatic cars are as common as unicorns, I am falling in love with France and, for at least one night, France loves me too.

  HELL HATH NO FURY

  LIKE A WOMAN SILENCED

  I might just have to slap my husband out of his shock because I, famous for non-stop blabbity-blah, have become practically mute. In the last four weeks, apart from the recent outings with our hosts, I’ve said almost nothing to anyone outside my house and it’s making me slightly wiggy.

  Just in case it seems like nothing but dewy delight and happy rays of sunshine over here, it is not. Sure, we have managed to start putting things together. We bought a cheap car that I can drive, the standard now abandoned at Neil’s gentle suggestion. We opened a bank account, bought a house and we have French cellphones—so far, so good. About that house thing, yes, less than a month in and we made an offer on a house, well, a roof and four walls. How this one plays out remains to be seen. But the point is that all these important events have taken place without me saying much beyond bonjour and au revoir. And today I’ve had my fill of it. I’m frustrated with major things being arranged and then hearing the translation in the car 20 minutes later, a poor concubine being shuttled about.

  I’ve been too busy getting settled to be able to co-ordinate with my French teacher who is currently a 45-minute drive away from me. Now one could surmise that if I spent more time practising French and less time writing about the mundane details of my life, I could parlez-vous the dingdong in no time. The real issue is that I have no plan, no structured way to go about it. Teaching myself from books and CDs is a good start, but so far it’s slow going to say the least. Also, I don’t think watching French dubbed Law & Order every night is working out as well as I’d hoped. Apparently, there’s not much call for perfectly enunciated, “In the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups,” out here in the country. Too bad, because it’s the only thing I can say with a perfect French accent.

  The user guide for my cellphone is bilingual but sadly the second language is German. I can’t understand the manual for my new bicycle. Because I’m the one with official residency here, everything is in my name and, even though all correspondence is addressed to me, it goes straight to the man who can actually read it. Now he just opens all my mail for me. If anyone calls I have to hand the phone to him. Can cutting my meat for me be too far off?

  It’s downright vexing to be a full-grown person and suddenly realize that you have the independence of a five-year-old. I suppose it’s not a bad deal having other people handle everything for you. Maybe this is what life is like for the diva du jour but without all the jet-setting and perfect thighs, it’s all a bit defeating. I’ve decided the only cure for whining is wining, so I’m unpacking the big glasses tonight. But first I have to get through the grocery store. My plan is to saunter up to the meat counter and when the sweet gal asks me what I would like, I will confidently proclaim, in flawless French, “The police who investigate crime and the district attorneys who prosecute the offenders. These are their stories.”

  WRECK SWEET WRECK

  I mentioned a house. It seems that old habits do indeed die hard. The upshot of doing something totally ridiculous is that it gives you a new standard by which all future stupidity can be measured. No matter what shenanigans go on in my life, I can always say, “Your Honour, I realize it was entirely naïve for me to think that I wouldn’t get caught but compared to the time I bought that wreck in France, this is nothing.” Now the wise thing to do would be to live a while in France, see how I like it, ease into the culture, blah, blah, le blah. Instead, why not buy a roof, four walls and some dirt floors from a Parisian artiste and then embark on a full-scale renovation without even knowing how to say the word hammer?

  Those who know me will not be surprised. I can actuall
y hear the rolling of eyes and the sighs of the wise, those who know full well that two months into this I’ll be pulling out what’s left of my hair. The only redeeming feature of this place at the moment is that the finished space would be about 800 square feet, so it fits with trying to live with less. But it will be quite a challenge, both in terms of design and a very tight budget.

  Anyway, the offer has been accepted but the papers are still not signed, so who knows? But paperwork and practicalities aside, I couldn’t help but be absolutely amazed by how cozy yet luxurious this house is. Why, all I need to do is open the wine and relax. This may be the day that all the marbles have actually been lost.

  A LIFE IN 15

  ITEMS OR LESS

  It seems that between grappling with la grammaire and buying houses I spend a lot of my time at the grocery store. Well, I like to eat and I’m in the country; it’s either that or cow-tipping. It’s also one of the few things I can do without an interpreter. I did try to mail a letter by myself the other day which didn’t go well and is a story for another day.

  So there I was, fashionable as ever, sweatpants, knobby pilled fleece and bedhead, more beast than beauty. I was trying to get in and out quickly as I suspected that I might have smelled worse than I looked. There was a woman ahead of me clearly in some sort of panic, whipping items along the belt with frenetic speed. She reminded me a lot of my former too busy self so I turned my attention to the couple behind me.

  They were about 80, this husband and wife who stood somewhere between my waist and my shoulder, as many people in France do. While they were immaculately dressed and groomed, they didn’t seem especially wealthy. As they slowly and carefully placed each item on the belt, I couldn’t help noticing what they had. Huge figs, specialty cheeses, two bottles of Burgundy wine and a bottle of sherry, fresh baguettes, fine coffee, berries, crème fraiche, huge eggplants and tomatoes, fresh fish, veal chops, duck breast and dark chocolate. Their last item was my favourite, a huge gold can of aerosol hair spray, one that I recognized from my grandmother’s time. It seemed to me that the history of their life was laid before me on this conveyor belt. A lifetime of fine food and wine. A wedding supper, lunches for children, holiday feasts, summer picnics, rationing during wartime, treats for grandchildren, funeral buffets, all served with perfectly styled hair. These two weren’t buying much food but what they had was the very best. Each item was so lovingly taken from the cart that it was really one of the best things I’ve seen here so far.

  It got me to thinking about how much we can tell about people from their items at the checkout. I often have a feeling of being quite exposed when all my sundries are out there for the world to see, but hopefully others don’t read as much into a grocery cart as the average psychiatrist does. What I saw here was that this couple’s life could well have been the life I had dreamed of living for so many years. Did they feel blessed to be surrounded by some of the best food in the world enjoyed over five-hour lunches? Or is it simply all they’ve ever known and so not a matter for reflection or gratitude? Was this a life, like so many, simply taken for granted?

  I had these same thoughts when I first saw Paris. I wondered how anybody ever gets through a workday there without being overwhelmed by the beauty of the city. In my head I know that the daily routine of life has a way of blocking out the spectacular and awe-inspiring sights around us. But my heart wants to believe that each day every Parisian stops to admire something and has their breath taken away.

  I want to thank this couple for reminding me to appreciate everything around me while I’m here, to try and experience each moment in France as a gift. I also want to thank them for not judging me too harshly as my life was also laid out on the conveyer belt: four big bags of Lay’s chips.

  THE SWEET SMELL

  OF SUCCESS

  With all that’s been going on, I have badly neglected my skin care regime, which usually consists of nail clipping and the occasional smear of body lotion. All things considered, supple skin is hardly a priority right now. But once I became scaly enough to be officially classified as a reptile, it was time to get a move on. I couldn’t find a loofah at the grocery store and the pharmacy was selling foot files for 16 euros (about $22 CDN), so I knew I could no longer avoid venturing into the world of French beauty boutiques. I’d been dreading it for a couple of reasons. I am desperately trying to steer clear of spending opportunities (and oh how I love these stores) and I have no idea how to ask for a foot file and loofah in French. Neil, always so helpful, said, “You know, if you’d looked these words up in the dictionary before you came, you’d know what to ask for.” Oh, it must be so wonderful to be right all the time. Anyway, there’s a chain store next to the supermarket called Beauty Success. I ventured in, and lo and behold, here in the middle of the country is a store that sells the complete line of Chanel, Dior and Lancôme make-up and every lotion and cream ever made. Bananas and state of the art skin care in the same place—what a country.

  Too excited to be concerned about language, I walked straight up to the gorgeous 19-year-old salesgirl (made up within an inch of her life) and started the drama of telling her what I wanted. After ten minutes of my painful speech and violent gesturing, including a pantomime of a complete body exfoliation, she handed me a loofah mitt. And what is it called? A “loofah.” I won’t be telling my Monsieur that one. Again, like everyone we meet, the girl was incredibly polite and at the checkout she tossed a bunch of perfume samples in the bag, 12 to be exact.

  Which brings me to my actual point. France is obsessed with fragrance. Everything here has some sort of scent. The men are drowning in it and the women are worse. Even the cars are made with different fragrances. It’s impossible to find any kind of soap or laundry detergent without some assaultive smell. Even the ones with a fragrance called soap would melt the hair right out of your nostrils. For some reason, I don’t want my underwear to smell like honey and apricots, but that’s just me. Coming from years spent in a strict scent-free environment, it’s complete olfactory overload. I initially thought that the girl might have gone overboard on the samples because she thought I smelled bad. What I’m hoping is that she gave them to me because I smelled like nothing and she felt it her duty to Frenchify me a bit.

  Who am I to argue with an entire culture? It’s all part of the adjustment to a new life. Today I’m going to try out the latest perfume from super designer Thierry Mugler. The package describes it as a radiant, vibrating (I’d like to know how), mysterious scent. The best part is that it’s called Alien. Me, I’m just hoping to stink like a local.

  FRENCH KISSING

  I know the key to living in another culture is to rise to the occasion and embrace, adopt or at least respect the way things are done. For the most part, I’m going along with everything, like not batting an eye when the entire nation goes on strike and riots in the streets causing 4000 gas stations to go dry. The French are all about revolution and the closer Monsieur Sarkozy gets to his pension reform the more revolutionary things become. We’re rationing gas as instructed and by the end of this week I fear Mad Max will rule the highways of France, but I digress.

  What I’m on about right now is all this kissing I have to do every time I see someone. I love it and I don’t. At first it’s charming and you instantly take on the air of a chic European. It’s romantic in a sense and good for the ego to think that everyone you see wants a kiss from you. After a while it becomes a bit of work because the art of les bises is not as easy as it looks. First of all, it varies from place to place. Some areas dictate a single kiss on each cheek, some an alternating cheek triple play and the other day, I noticed women in the town going in for the quadruple. Who has time for that? Imagine going out for a night with the girls. It would be time to go home as soon as you’d finished saying hello.

  Second, it’s easy to misjudge as you’re bringing your face in, one false move and it’s full on mouth kissing someone you don’t know or head-butting yourself, the other person or both of yo
u into unconsciousness. Or in my case, awkwardly kissing the air as the person walks away. Trust me, there’s no successful recovery move for this faux pas. Plus, and this could be the MD in me, but how the hell do you avoid the flu with all this kissing going on? No wonder France has the highest rate of antibiotic use in the world. If you lick everyone you meet you’re bound to be a bit more germ infested than the average person. Okay, you don’t actually lick people, so travellers please take note, but there is an awful lot of virus sharing potential.

  I’m thinking of making a list of people I’m willing to kiss in an effort to save time and decrease cold medication expenditures. But then I think of that episode of Seinfeld where Jerry refused to kiss his neighbours and became a social pariah, probably not a good move in terms of blending in with the locals. On second thought, I’ll keep on with it. It is lovely to stop and press your cheek to the warm face of another human being as a way of saying hello. It reminds me all the time that I live here now and I have to do things differently, and there’s no time to spare. Sarkozy is about to raise the retirement age to 62, and in the spirit of cultural adaptation I’m off to set some cars on fire.

  A METHOD

  TO THIS MADNESS

  Word of the Wreck has gotten around to my crowd back in Canada and I must say the feedback is just as I expected, everything from silence to laughter to warnings about every disaster that could come my way during this process. My wise friend Monique, who is very familiar with my house fetish, summed it up perfectly: “What took you so long?” But I assured her that this is not some impulsive folly. I admit that this statement may not be a stellar example of self-awareness, but at the very least the purchase was discussed at length with people who have been successful in the French property market for some time. Right. One conversation should be more than enough to proceed with confidence.

  We’ve been here before, a grand total of eight houses now ripped apart and pieced together again. Usually when we go at it we’re like a runaway train, working full time at our day jobs, renovating and designing into the wee hours. We exist for months on grilled cheese sandwiches and instant noodles (he hammers, I cook) and run ourselves to the point of collapse. Then as soon as the paint dries we sell the house and congratulate ourselves on breaking even. Oh, but this time it’ll be different (I say this every single time) as the people we’re planning to work with will manage the entire project from day one.