Finding me in France

by Bobbi French

  SHOW ME

  THE MONEY

  Removing every hair on my lower body one at a time with rusty tweezers.

  Watching every Steven Seagal and Jean-Claude Van Damme movie ever made back to back for 48 hours straight.

  Flying from France to Australia the morning after being crowned champion at an international hot wing eating/tequila shooter contest.

  Attending a three-day conference on the mating habits of the South American carpenter ant.

  Anything that goes on behind the closed door of a gynecologist’s office.

  Having the Newfoundland flag tattooed across my tongue.

  Untangling 27 sets of Christmas lights.

  Quantum physics.

  Working as Celine Dion’s personal assistant.

  Trying on bathing suits in early March under fluorescent lighting.

  Things that are all way easier, way more fun and way less painful than getting a renovation mortgage in France.

  DECEMBER

  MEMBERSHIP

  HAS ITS PRIVILEGES

  I was having one of those days, a day when the moments of weakness far outnumber the moments of fortitude, and I started thinking about getting on the first Air Canada jet bound for the homeland. When you have nothing better to do, it’s easy to find time to let the trials and tribulations of living in a foreign country overwhelm your kind and gentle nature. It started with the fact that we cannot find snow tires for our little French car, known affectionately as the blue bubble. Here in the land of Michelin, not a tire to be found. How is it possible that the world’s biggest tire factory is practically right down the road but we can’t get winter tires? I found this out after returning from the now famous pharmacy where I was trying to find a between the knee pillow necessary for all those with spines of glass. Of course I had to deal with Mademoiselle Vaginale, an added bonus. The trouble is, because I didn’t understand a bloody word she said, I left unsure of whether I ordered the pillow or not. My nerves are just about gone.

  Then I discovered these mysterious red lesions that have been popping up all over my body. The glamour never ends over here. I couldn’t call to get a doctor’s appointment because phone French is beyond me. So, I threw on a bit of lipstick to try and look presentable and raced up to town to get to the local GP’s office before the big lunchtime shutdown. I walked into the clinic only to see a notice on the waiting room wall that said the only female doctor in the area was not taking any new patients. Oh, I see. Fine.

  I whipped off my coat, started beating the floor with it, while shrieking, “OF COURSE SHE’S NOT TAKING NEW PATIENTS! SOMEONE GET ME A BUCKET OF WINE RIGHT NOW! I DON’T CARE THAT IT’S ONLY 11:30. IT’S FRANCE AND YOU ALL DRINK WINE FOR BREAKFAST IN THIS GODFORSAKEN WASTELAND OF A COUNTRY SO SHUT UP!” Then I picked up a chair and hurled it through the large plate glass window.

  No, not really. I haven’t completely succumbed to my inner toddler yet, but I will say that I was frustrated enough to let this scenario play out in my head a little longer than I should have. Instead, I waited for all the patients to be seen, and when the doctor came out my redheaded interpreter and I pounced on her. She took us into her office and we explained our situation. To my complete amazement she said that we could negotiate, maybe she could agree to take on one or two new people here and there. I was waiting for the part where I had to offer Neil’s services for Saturday nights (by this I mean cooking and fixing stuff), but in the end she just asked about our health and offered to examine me right then and there. On the one hand this was marvelous. On the other hand, when I took my coat off I was shocked to see that I was still wearing the frayed Tabasco Hot Sauce T-shirt I had slept in. I was particularly thrilled to see that the big blob of dark chocolate smeared on the front of it had somehow survived the night. Again, it’s one big issue of Paris Vogue after another with me.

  Anyway, she was entirely gracious, gave me a referral to a dermatologist, checked the rest of me over and then didn’t charge me for the appointment because I was a colleague. I knew that all those years of school and a six-figure student loan would be worth it someday. If only I’d been a mechanic. I would’ve had my tires yesterday.

  SOCIAL PAPILLON

  Say what you will about the perils of modern technology, but I’d be lost without it. If not for Skype, email and internet telephone lines, I’d have bailed out long ago. I’ve been chatting with lots of friends from home lately and I actually feel social again, even if it is only in the virtual sense. In reality, I’ve been quite the socialite this past weekend. On Saturday night we braved the arctic weather for an evening at the Café Des Arts. They were hosting an exhibition for a Parisian artist who was in attendance, wearing cowboy boots, a biker jacket and tight red jeans, a perfectly appropriate ensemble for a man in his 60s. There was also another fancy gentleman, silk cravat and all, referred to as Maestro. Maestro of what I don’t know— perhaps a famous European symphony, although my guess is he’s the local high school music teacher who insists that everyone call him that. Some days my life seems far too inspired by Seinfeld.

  On Sunday we were doubly blessed. My neighbour, Elizabeth, who has taken me on as a bit of a project, took us for a fantastic lunch at the home of her friends, Anne and Michel. We feasted on Swiss sausage cooked in wine while admiring their stunning French farmhouse. We lingered for hours at their dining table—an enormous slab of wood suspended from the ceiling by huge chains opposite an ancient fireplace big enough to stand in. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with books, and from my chair I could see the atelier outside where Anne crafts gorgeous silver jewelry. They offered us the use of their apartment in Switzerland (not much to think about on that one) and we marveled at their kindness to two souls lost in the heart of Burgundy. Later in the day, Michel and Patricia came for a visit. We poked around at the Wreck and caught up on the news from Etrochey, and it was wonderful to see them again.

  Relief, or as the French say soulagement, was the word of the day. Interesting things to do, new friends and a break from being the Village Idiot. I was very well-behaved, not one embarrassing episode all weekend. Perhaps the madness is settling and I will now have a normal, boring but Frenchy cool life. Somehow I’ll learn to speak French, I’ll be socially successful and the house will come together smoothly. Maybe all the humiliation and weirdness is behind me. Of course, tomorrow is another day and as I skip and twirl over the Pont Pinard singing, “The hills are alive,” I know the universe is plotting its revenge.

  THE BIG CHILL

  Hey Canada, I found your winter here in France. Come get it. It’s so cold here Brigitte Bardot is wearing a sealskin coat. Ice and snow have brought most of the UK and France to a slow crawl. Thousands of flights have been cancelled and trucks, the lifeline of Europe, have been stranded for days, which means that every delay in France now has an excuse—the weather. Next the bank will be telling me that the mortgage approval is still not ready because of the weather and my head might actually explode. Here in Semur, we’ve not seen the sun for over a month now and I’m just waiting for rickets to set in. Maybe I thought France would be warmer and sunnier, but I’m not complaining. Other parts of the country have been really dumped on and, compared to a Newfoundland winter, this place is practically tropical.

  But then, I come from the land of professional winter survivors. We really know how to handle it with plows and salt and such. Here they just look frightened and descend into panic mode. I’m stunned by the amount of snow that creates havoc over here. Fifteen centimetres? Sure that’s a mere dusting, nothing that can’t be managed with a slight eye roll and the latest snazzy scraper from Canadian Tire. I’m not buying this whole surprised by winter business. Scientists the world over have confirmed that winter comes every year and at about the same time. But I have to go a little easy on the French, as apparently this kind of weather almost never occurs before January. And it might be our fault. Everywhere we go I can see the locals looking at us and putting deux and deux together. An early
winter coincides with the arrival of two Canadians who appear to have multiple down coats and several wooly hats apiece. I admit it does look a bit suspicious.

  But at least I know how to dress for winter. The other day I was walking in town wearing my full-length shearling coat, a trapper hat and of course my non-slip Timberland boots. Why, in my view, I could have just slipped unnoticed into the crowd at the Sundance Film Festival. Then I saw her coming out of the flower shop, a lovely little grey beret and trendy cinched-waist coat, an artfully draped silk scarf and high-heeled boots. Ah yes: me,

  Nanook of the North. Her, Ice Queen of Europe. At least she’ll look gorgeous as she’s going down on that icy cobblestone. I’m just thankful she can’t see me at home in my long johns, wool socks and fleece slippers.

  Stone cottages are quaint, but warm they ain’t. So I’m settling in for the long haul here. The wine will flow, the bakeries will keep pumping out croissants and the grocery stores now have entire aisles devoted to Christmas chocolates. Like every year, I’ll tough it out until spring. Someone wake me when it’s April.

  DECISIONS, DECISIONS

  Wreckgate continues. The deadline for financing has come and gone and the initial answer from the bank was, “ we might consider financing your lovely maison … with just a few conditions.” A few conditions they said, like get French life insurance because we don’t accept that silly Canadian insurance that you’ve had for ten years. And we don’t feel like financing your kitchen because your range, fridge and clever Ikea cabinets and countertops are “portable.” And if any unexpected costs crop up during the renovation, you’re on your own with that. So bon courage and we appreciate your business.

  Well, how interesting. For a number of reasons I find those terms entirely unacceptable. I’m old and decrepit, literally falling apart at the seams and Neil takes medication with an annual cost equal to that of a Mercedes, so applying for new life insurance is not an optimistic undertaking, no pun intended. And this portable concept is confusing to me. What do they think I’m going to do? Rip off the countertops and strap them to my back on the next Air Canada flight? As for unexpected costs, I’ve done enough renovations to know that it would not be unusual to find out, mid-project, that the house is built on an ancient burial ground requiring a team of voodoo priests to sign off on it to the tune of $25,000. Banks, gotta love ’em. To think it only took them two months to come up with this brilliant response. So for the first time in the whole mortgage-o-rama, these conditions create an opportunity for us to walk away penalty free. Of course then what? As of May 1st, we’re homeless. There are slim pickings for rental opportunities here in Semur, except for vacation houses that I couldn’t afford now for a week let alone for months at a time.

  In the meantime, as if this isn’t complicated enough, we’ll begin talks with a second bank, which means another month or so of deliberations over the proposed project and, come May 1st, we’re still homeless. We could look for another house that needs less work, but there’s not much to choose from. I have no idea what to do. So, as my mother and her mother before her always said, there’s nothing to do but to “offer it up.” Good advice. I’ll reflect and pray, meditate and intoxicate and see what comes of it. Mostly I’d like to offer it right up Monsieur Bank’s arse.

  MIDDLE-AGE SPREAD

  In the meantime, my midsection is in love with France and it has decided to show its affection by expanding exponentially. I’m gone right doughy (translation: I have become unusually soft and squishy). No wonder—I’ve never eaten so much bread and pastry in my life. I’ve always been skinny, so this being shaped like a sausage is something new. About two weeks ago, I buttoned my comfy, mannish Levis and there it was, a jellyroll, the proverbial muffin top. I went through the whole mess of excuses. Demonic French laundry machines shrinking my pants, temporary bloating from the change in diet, retaining water from something connected to the joys of womanhood, and I was pleased particularly because I saw no reason to deviate from my daily carbohydrate festival. Except that a week later, the muffin top was now one of those super size ones sold by the case at Costco along with barrels of olive oil and laundry detergent. Maybe this was somehow related to my eating habits.

  Still, my denial was in full force until yesterday. I had eaten half a box of chocolates, part of a large chocolate horse filled with gooey caramel (a Semur specialty), a pain au chocolat, a gigantic Nutella and banana sandwich and for dinner, veal scaloppini with mash and veg. Then I enjoyed some corn chips, dark chocolate and a fruity soda called Agrum while watching a movie. I can’t remember what I had for breakfast and lunch, but I know I had something. I was lying on my side in bed, mystified by the crampy stomach I was suffering from. My lovely husband lay down behind me to give me a cuddle, which he was obliged to do because I was whining like a two-year-old about retaining water. He put his hand on my stomach in a there-there gesture and this is what I heard from the man behind me, “What’s that?” Then this is what the man behind me did. He took the protruding flesh in his hand, started jiggling it, and said, “What’s that?” clearly finding himself enormously funny.

  Well, there it is. Oh, we laugh about it now. Or at least I pretend to laugh. I guess I should be grateful to him for breaking through my web of defenses, and I am. So grateful that I think I’ll return the favour. The next time we’re in public, I’ll grab something that protrudes from his body, jiggle it and say, “What’s that?” A good marriage is all about the give and take. I know he’ll thank me for it later.

  THE FIRST NOËL

  With all that’s been going on lately, I’ve completely forgotten that it’s almost Christmas. Of course I don’t really do Christmas. As a childfree woman, I’ve usually been on call, and since it’s often the busiest time of year in psychiatry, it’s always been something I hoped would come and go quickly. Also, due to our constant renovating, Neil and I have gradually gotten out of the present thing. He gives me a toilet, I give him a bag of tile grout and we call it a day. In fact, over the last few years I’ve managed to almost entirely extricate myself from the yearly tumult. Now, watching it from afar, it looks quite ridiculous and always makes me scratch my head. Two people plan to give each other and their families gifts for Christmas. This involves fighting over parking spaces, racing through malls, sweating with screaming kids in the lines at Wal-Mart, racking up credit cards to buy things that nobody really needs, followed by three days in bed and a year of payments to recover from the joy of it. Why don’t people just pay each other’s light bill and go have a few drinks together? I’m no humbug. I love the idea of Christmas, I just don’t understand the madness it’s become. We all know there’s not a whole lot of peace and goodwill going on at Future Shop on the 24th of December.

  This first French Christmas will obviously be different for us. We don’t have any ornaments so we’ll skip the tree. On Christmas Eve we’re meeting with the second bank to see if they will give us a mortgage that actually allows for a kitchen. And for a change, this year we gave each other something other than drywall dust—a ticket. Jean-Philippe Collard, a renowned French pianist, has friends here in Semur and a couple of times a year he comes and plays in the tiny medieval theatre. So last night we ventured out with Semur’s finest citizens as well as people who came from Switzerland just to hear him play in such a small venue.

  Despite being delayed by winter weather, he arrived and sat at the Steinway without a moment of practice and gave a breathtaking performance as a rather large bat flew wildly about the theatre. Yes, of course there was a bat. In between pieces, this elegant man (think silver-haired Alan Rickman) stood and talked about the composers, their music and who knows what else. I didn’t have to know what he was saying because it was enough just to take in the spectacle. Our neighbour Elizabeth, a classically trained pianist herself, was as proud to present him to us as if he were her own creation. It was a magical night and for me, this is what Christmas is all about—being with someone you love, doing something you enjoy, experien
cing something that makes your heart glad and your soul soften. Well, that and a big load of fancy French chocolates.

  BAPTISM BY FIRE

  This chapter will be written in perfect literary French. Oh, how I wish I weren’t lying. I couldn’t write much more than, “I’d like a glass of white wine please,” but there’s something to be said for this whole immersion idea. Between my lessons, French television and living here, I’m happy to say that I understand a fair bit more than when I arrived. It’s a back and forth thing though, as just when I think I’m doing fine, someone comes along speaking très vite and I’m lost all over again. Well, I’d better get it together because pretty soon Neil heads back to the land of sour cream and Shoppers Drug Mart for seven whole days. Something to do with that stuff he does to pay for everything.

  He’s leaving me here, alone in a foreign country where I am perfectly capable of ordering a complete meal but totally incapable of communicating in an emergency, like, “I’ve accidentally cut my hand off trying to make something called dinner.” I mean there’s just so much that could go wrong. Number one, I may actually starve to death. All right, that’s a bit over the top, but seven days of grilled cheese sandwiches and chocolates can’t be good for you. Plus, I believe I mentioned that river that runs under our house. Last week it was so high that it flooded over the road and the little wall that surrounds our happy maison. It took Neil half a day to talk me down from the ceiling. Finally, the intricate plumbing of this cottage completely freaks me out. The sewage gets pumped from the house, as does the other water, by some crafty system located in the cave under the house. It’s so finicky that only one plumber in the area knows how to deal with it. Just the other day the grey water pump seized up and flooded the bathroom. I was standing there washing my hands, preoccupied with examining the canyon developing between my eyebrows, when suddenly I was up to my ankles in water. Only after determining that it was water from the sink and dishwasher did I resume breathing. Neil had to descend into the dark watery cave through a trap door in the floor and do something that disconnected the pump. Now the water just splashes into the cave until the plumber can come next week.