by Bobbi French
OH THE HUMANITY
I knew it was coming. Public humiliation. My French remains a vast wasteland dotted with the occasional noun, verb (present tense only) and adjective. To make matters worse, I finally met with my French teacher here in Semur only to find out that her daughter had just given birth in Sweden and my lessons would have to wait until the end of the month. Honestly, the nerve of some people. How can this baby, who probably already speaks perfect Swedish, take priority over me? Anyway, today I had the enviable experience of having to go to the pharmacy to get something desperately needed for a “lady” problem. I had two options, take Neil the translator with me and have him regale the pharmacist with a tale of my feminine woes or go it alone. I chose the latter, as the idea of having my husband in on this debacle seemed far too terrifying. It is my firm belief that the success of any marriage depends on judicious disclosure.
So off I went. As luck would have it, it happened to be about two o’clock and the pharmacy was packed after the two-hour lunch closure. I was wandering around desperately longing for the old days at Shoppers Drug Mart. I picked up some badly needed foot cream to stall the whole process when I heard the singsong call, “Bonjour, Madame.” There she was, a pretty young woman in a crisp white coat, sweet as tarte tatin, waiting to help me. I started with what I thought was much improved French, but I suddenly realized that I didn’t really know any of the words I needed. This was not the time to fall back on my usual trick of gestures and jazz hands, pointing to the nether regions and such. She couldn’t understand me so she called for the pharmacist to come help and I went through the whole thing again. Now, this was at a counter in the middle of the store with a large line of people behind me, all staring at the giant foreigner in their midst. I knew we were finally getting somewhere on the translation front when a lightbulb appeared to switch on in the young woman’s head. “Ah, vaginale, vaginale!” she exclaimed loudly, smiling at the pharmacist, obviously quite proud of herself for finally understanding me. Oh. My. Holy. Mother. You could’ve heard a pin drop in Siberia. Well, how wonderful. At least now everyone in Semur knows I have a vagina. This is exactly how I imagined being introduced to the locals.
But you can’t keep a good vagina owner down. I regrouped and quickly started talking about the high cost of my items, trying to capitalize on my knowledge that the French don’t exactly love to part with money. I could hear them murmuring their agreement and I hoped nobody noticed that my face was as red as a tomato and likely hot enough to fry an egg on. For god’s sake, you’re a doctor I thought; get a handle on yourself. Everyone was probably more disgusted by the crevice-filling heel cream than anything else that I was on about. On a positive note, I did manage to walk into a French pharmacy and walk out with what I needed, so I have to pat myself on the back for that. At the very least I’m prepared for the next feminine hygiene emergency. I’ll just send Neil. I think the marriage can take it.
WHERE NOBODY
KNOWS YOUR NAME
Today I was meandering about town and I realized that I live in a place where absolutely no one knows me. This is a first for me. When I left St. John’s some twelve years ago, I couldn’t walk through the mall without running into half of my high school class. And in Halifax I had many friends and colleagues but here I’m an unknown, a nobody, an étrangère. Of course there’s greatness to be found in anonymity. I can, if I want, run the full length of Rue de la Liberté wearing nothing but rubber boots and a wool toque singing Oh Canada top lung and no one would be able to identify me. I can go to the grocery store with varying degrees of bedhead and body odour and it doesn’t really matter because there’s no chance of running into a soul who knows me. I can even be humiliated beyond belief at the pharmacy and survive, simply because I am a foreign entity. Very liberating indeed. The thing is, I don’t really want to run naked through the streets, at least not today. Liberated is one thing, isolated is another. Nobody knows me and maybe that’s good. But that means I don’t know anybody and that’s not so good. The only folks I know live an hour away, not exactly convenient for a wine and whine session.
No Newfoundlander can live for very long without the art of the chat. We can squeeze a good two hours out of weather alone, and I am nothing if not defined by my excellent heritage. I need to know people. I also have a suspicion that I might, just might, be driving Neil bananas. At some point every couple runs out of things to talk about. My solution has been convincing him to let me post embarrassing pictures of him on the Internet, to which I know he has only agreed as a means of keeping me quiet for an hour. I assume socializing will come with time and with learning more French, but I can’t wait that long. I need some English repartee and I need it now. There’s a lady across the way who I see out walking her dog from time to time. Yesterday, I heard her speaking perfect English and it took everything I had not to run to her as fast as I could yelling, “DO YOU WANT TO PLAY WITH ME?” Instead, I’ve invited her over for a drink tomorrow night. Poor lady. I hope I don’t frighten her to death with my pent-up chattiness, which I fear will gush out of my mouth like a raging river as soon as I open the door. It’s like being a kid all over again, trying to make friends on the street and hoping you have at least one toy the other kids don’t have, that one toy that elevates you from outcast to one of the gang. I don’t have much in the way of toys but I do have that husband I could loan out for a night. He could use some time away from me.
LIFE ON THE
LOWER WEST SIDE
Many years ago when I was young and snappy, I had serious dreams of running away to New York City to become a theatre performer. I had no idea what kind of theatre would have me but I never doubted that I would end up there some day living in a hip apartment in a hip neighbourhood with hip friends. Now I suspect a broken hip is all I’d find if I began prancing about on a stage in the Big Apple. The point is, I always saw myself as a city gal. True, I’ve never lived in a major city for any length of time, but I’ve also never lived in a place with fewer than 150,000 people. I remember going from St. John’s to Toronto as a kid and being infected with big city energy and fascinated by the masses of people of every colour and creed. But mostly I recall being whipped into a state of consumer frenzy by all the things you could buy beyond my small corner of the world. St. John’s was always the last place in Canada to stock all the things we saw on cable TV channels piped in from exciting places in America like Bangor and Detroit.
So, this past weekend I embarked on my Get To Know Semur Excursion, and so far I’ve learned two things. One, I am the tallest woman in town and I’m thoroughly shocked by this. Oh, of course not. The second is that I have chosen to live in a town where I cannot purchase a cellphone. I already have one, I’m just saying that if I needed to buy one I’d have to drive to another town. Then again, this is all about seeking a simpler life, one that allows me to live on a very modest income. Obviously restricted access to shops and services helps in this regard, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t need time to adjust. I mean there’s no Mac store here. What do I do if my computer breaks down? There’s no video store, so losing myself in the latest indie flick for $4.99 isn’t happening any time soon. At night there isn’t a creature about, so midnight martinis and tapas are also things of the past. Today I had the first feelings of doubt about living somewhere so quiet and small. Now I’m not saying that there’s nothing to be had here. I can walk two minutes up the road and find a stunning, 18th century armoire. It’s more the everyday convenience type things that I’ve grown accustomed to that are nowhere to be found. I’m not sure I can do this. Of course, this would have been useful information to have before purchasing a house here. I’ll have to adjust somehow.
I eventually did get to New York City but it wasn’t until 2004 and the only performance I gave was that of an enraptured audience member of La Bohème at The Met. So for now, I must be content with living on the lower west side of Semur, the town that always sleeps. Instead of a view of the Hudson I have the River Arman
çon at my doorstep. And as for performing, you can catch me every day and every night playing the role of a woman who doesn’t want anything more than she already has.
CHAMPAGNE TASTE,
BEER BUDGET
So back to the Wreck of the Hesperus. We had our big meeting to review all the work estimates and as usual we have created a plan that only a Trump could love. What exactly is wrong with us? Perhaps we are fundamentally incapable of doing anything on a small scale. We started out with a very modest plan: an open living room, kitchen and eating area and two small rooms upstairs, a bedroom for us and an office for Neil. This has somehow ballooned into an addition out the back that juts out onto an enormous wall of rock and has the world’s most complicated roof design. Plus two full bathrooms (to prevent divorce) as well as a half bathroom on the main floor because apparently I’m too lazy to go upstairs every 20 minutes (my bladder and a tea bag, same size), and a full revamping of the exterior.
Now the house has nothing, as in dirt floors nothing. These tremendously talented artisans cost money and we’ve already overpaid the Parisian artiste for la maison to begin with, so now it’s down to some really tough decisions. We could overextend ourselves to finance the big plan and hope that our venture into the world of toilet cleaning pays off. We’d live happily ever after, sipping cheap wine on the terrace of the small but not so simple house. Or we could scale it right back to bare bones and turn it into a little vacation house that could possibly provide some income, very little income, so a gamble for sure. There is a third somewhat hideous option. We could decide that we simply cannot make a go of it and walk away despite being beyond the time permitted to do so. This would mean a pull-out penalty (Catholics, not a word) of over 9,000 euros, which is like a million dollars Canadian. Okay, it’s actually more like $13,000, but it might as well be a million to me because to pay that for a French real estate lesson might send me right round the friggin’ pipe.
So, for the next few days we’ll be frantically reviewing and discussing all the relevant details to try and come to a decision about what to do. And, comme d’habitude, as the stress level rises, I take to thinking and talking to myself. On the one hand I say, what the hell? I came for the big game action, so I can motor on and the worst that happens is I’d have to sell it. But steady on old girl, houses take a really long time to sell here so this could be big trouble, as in financial ruin. Okay, then do it up as a rental and there’s a possibility for some income and investment reward. Hang on now my friend. After you dump money into the reno, you then have to buy furniture and linens, fully stock a kitchen, and provide all the other bells and whistles that make a successful vacation property. Then where will the money be found for a place for you and Big Red to live? Does anyone else talk to themselves like this?
I have no idea where this is going. The next couple of days will be difficult and I can’t help thinking that all this crap reminds me of something. What is it I wonder? Oh yes, my old life, the one I moved heaven and Earth to escape from. As my mother always says, you can’t run away from your feet.
THE EAST VILLAGE
Many discoveries have been made by venturing away from the funky French cottage here on the lower west side, all the way to the opposite side of town, which carries a grand commute of about, oh I’d say, twelve minutes. Walking. Granted a short distance by city standards, but it does require a quadriceps-burning ascent up a set of stone stairs that, for the time being, fortuitously eliminates the need for spin classes and StairMasters. By the time I get to town I’m a sweating, panting mess of a woman. At least I’ve found a way to counteract all my croissant gorging. So, throughout the grey and rainy days of late I’ve been traipsing about what I call the east village. Sadly, my dreams of catching Patti Smith and Sam Shepard lounging at the café have not materialized, but all is not lost. I found a large organic food shop and a very charming lingerie boutique, so herb teas and breasts are covered.
What I’ve also discovered is that my east village, just like the one of my teenage dreams, is home to artists and rockers alike. I managed to find an art and antique shop that is currently showing some edgy graphic prints as well as some funky antique jewelry and the most beautiful collection of Christmas ornaments I’ve ever seen. As for the rock element, well, I did see a guy outside the tabac wearing a leather headband and a white tank top in the cold November rain. I’m assuming that he left his coat at home in order to display his dog collar and the collection of spiked armbands that ran the full length of both arms. So maybe he’s no Iggy Pop, but he’s what I’ve got. Add to the mix the discovery of a small theatre promising a performance by one of the finest pianists in France next month and the hipster scene is complete.
Yes, this town is more than I gave it credit for, I think. It’s no mecca of the urbane but it’s still a charming town in one of the most beautiful regions of France and offers the allure of a foreign culture. All that’s missing now is my usual gang of chic gay boyfriends. How I miss my Canadian boys like Colin whose comment on my new grey hair was, “Girl, your eyes are piercing.” Really, how can I be expected to live without this sort of thing? I’ve heard that Semur actually has a gay community and finding that will be my next project. Or I can just sit and wait for it to find me, which always happens no matter where I wander.
My very clever sister says she imagines my life must be like living in a French film—despair, chaos and drama surrounded by impossibly chic knickknacks. Well, on my lower west side, the chaos, drama and knick-knacks are here and the despair is only occasional. All that’s missing now in my east village is a Mapplethorpe exhibit and a man to help me dress for it.
CHEZ SERGE
Now I imagine very few people come here to see Christmas baubles. I’d say whenever people think about France the first two things that come to mind are food and wine. There are several big grocery stores in town and I was surprised to discover that the Intermarché is remarkably similar to any Canadian grocery store I’ve been to, well, apart from all the labels that I can’t read and a meat counter that sells rabbits with their heads still attached. But one of my favourite things found in France is the épicerie, a small boutique food store. When I first visited Paris I fell in love with one in Montmartre, not just for the food but also for the unmistakable Frenchiness of the store itself. I thought that such gastronomic luxury would be limited to larger cities, but right here in this tiny town is a store that rivals any Parisian gourmet boutique. On the sidewalk, under the cherry red awning, there are stalls with everything from fresh oysters on ice to exotic mushrooms. And when you walk through the red door, it takes you in body and soul, and transports you to another time. It’s one of the most thoughtfully considered food shops I’ve ever seen.
The styling of the cans is almost enough to make me eat sardines. Of course you pay a little extra for all these delicacies, but browsing is free as is a chat with Serge, who tells me that I look a lot like his wife. Obviously a man of impeccable taste. At least I have an angle for a discount on that bottle of Volnay in the back.
FATHER FORGIVE ME
FOR I HAVE SINNED
Perhaps a tad dramatic as I have not committed a mortal sin, at least not yet today. But I do have a confession to make and, as a recovered Catholic, I have no idea how else to begin. Many a time I knelt in the dark of the confessional, ready to be absolved for the transgressions committed that week. Whatever crime against humanity I’d masterminded over at Pius X Girl’s School had to be put forth to avoid the fires of hell. At least it was always confidential and anonymous. Why else would you be protected from the long line of sinners outside by a threadbare velvet curtain and obscured from the priest by a high tech square of wire screen? Although, I must admit I had my doubts when my sessions would end with Father Ken saying, “Say ten Hail Marys and tell your mother I’ll be up for supper Friday night.”
Anyway, my most recent deep and dark is that despite being in the land of haute cuisine, and indeed the food here is nothing short of miraculou
s, there are foods that I find I’m missing. It’s a shameful list and borders on the ridiculous, but then again so does my whole life these days. I’ve previously mentioned my longing for sour cream, and all those people who say crème fraîche is just as good should be on their knees because lying is a sin.
No sour cream anywhere but also no ginger ale in a can, no Miracle Whip or Monterey Jack cheese. No President’s Choice lemonade. No ribeye steaks and no fresh guacamole or salsa, and as for making my own, I’m way too inept for such endeavours. No honey garlic spare ribs or wonton soup. No marble rye, no pastrami, no French’s Mustard, so no sandwich. It’s a sad list when you live in a place where Meursault wine is made half an hour down the road and foie gras practically falls from the sky. I really do want to eat fresh, local food and for the most part that’s what I’ve been doing. But I still long for all the things that once had a regular spot on the grocery list. Even though the stores here are bursting with gastronomic wonders, I really miss my crappy foodstuff because it’s just part of what I knew day in and day out, all part of the everything left behind.
So there, I’ve said it. I live in France and I’m dying for some Miracle Whip. Let’s take me out back and beat the merde out of me. Instead, I’ll confess my sins. There’s a spectacular church up in town and I’m polishing up my Act of Contrition and tearing up the house looking for a set of rosary beads. I can’t imagine what the penance here is for pining for fake mayonnaise, so I think it might be best to keep my plans to open up a Gap and a Blockbuster to myself.
