Finding me in France

by Bobbi French

  It was all considerably nerve-wracking, but we signed a standard French contract that seems to favour the rights of the tenants considerably. Of course for all I know there may very well be a clause in that book they call a lease requiring naked chicken dancing on the notaire’s desk—me, not him. He hasn’t called to schedule that yet so I think I’m in the clear. While I’d rather have my scalp waxed than do the drama of yet another house set-up, I am excited about having a place of my own again. The down side is the loss of freedom from possessions. For one brief moment in time I was weighed down by nothing more than a mattress, a few boxes and a bunch of dated but lengthy clothes. Now, I will once again own things necessitating large trucks and burly butt-crack-revealing movers.

  This time, I’m not even going to bother with emphatic statements about how I’m never doing this again. Who’d believe me? Besides, there’s too much to do. While the previous tenants were kind enough to sell us the cupboard doors, they did take all the light fixtures, c’est normal around these parts, another thing to add to the ever-growing list. And then there’s that little issue of the toxic fumes emanating from the newly replaced and all-important second toilet. What odds I say, I’ll find the time. It’s not like I’m scheduled to conduct Middle East peace talks next week. I mean really, what am I on about? It’s not like I have a full-time job across the Atlantic. I don’t have to do all the phone calls and letter writing, lease translation and heavy lifting now do I? No, those tasks fall to someone I know who has the patience of a saint, a mind like a steel trap and the heart of a happy child. The bulging biceps are just a bonus.

  SURPRISE

  PARTY

  Well, it’s one for the books and can only be recorded in the Wild and Wonderful Things About a French Life section. Early last week, one of our landlords called to say that they wanted to come down from Paris to check up on a few things before we moved in. Being overrun with thrilling things to do like figuring out if we’d brought a cheese grater from Canada, I casually asked him if he needed us there. He did, we had the keys. Fine, quick dash up there at eleven, bonjour, toilet smells, merci, au revoir and then back to buying dishes. Well, clearly some conspiring went on in Paris because at about 10:30 one of the other landlords left a voicemail saying they wouldn’t be able to make it until about noon. They’d decided to meet up with some friends to have a picnic on this beautiful day and would we like to join them? At first I thought, oh now a Frenchy picnic, avec plaisir! But with so much to do and Neil’s work schedule ramping up, we decided that we’d better get our business done quickly and let everybody resume their regularly scheduled programs.

  We were all ready to give them a quick rundown of the issue at hand, or in this case at arse, but as they arrived I was quite distracted by the number of people approaching the house and all the bags they had with them. As it turned out, our landlords had invited their friends who’d heard the many tales of the renovation of the little house in Semur but never had a chance to see it. What was becoming apparent was that their picnic was at our house. And before I could say pardonnez-moi, one Parisian after another was coming through the door and within minutes the housette was at full capacity. They were all touring the house, congratulating their friends on their successful venture while the kids ran up and down the stairs and skipped rope on the terrace. Neil and I were completely dazed, making all sorts of peculiar faces at each other, desperately attempting to decipher the etiquette of this one. It all happened so fast that there was nothing to do but sit back and enjoy the show.

  From their bags they pulled fresh baguettes and cheeses, a tomato tarte, roasted turkey, charcuterie complete with mini cutting boards, fresh fruit, glasses, a corkscrew and bottles of very fine wine. They spread it all out on the sunny terrace and settled in. They were all charming, fascinating people and so very encouraging about our new place. They even offered to put us up on our next visit to Paris. After a couple of hours they packed it all up, thanked us for having them, double kissed all around and as quickly as they’d all appeared, whoosh. They were off. It was the best party we never had.

  Two things I’ve learned from this caper: one, always shower and change out of your sweatpants before leaving your house for any reason, and two, this notion of Parisians as standoffish is simply not true. From what I’ve seen they’re full of warmth and hospitality. You just have to be ready for them to spring it on you.

  TOUR DE FRANCIS

  You know it’s funny how things work out in this life. When we came to Semur on vacation last year, on our very first walk through town, we stumbled upon a house that literally left me speechless, no easy feat.

  I had Neil take a picture of me pretending to open the gate and we bolted off in case the owner saw us. Since then it has never once failed to lift my spirits. But imagine my spirits when I discovered that it is the home of our friend Francis. Now I have the pleasure of seeing it whenever I like, up-close and personal.

  Incroyable indeed. I feel incredibly fortunate to be invited to this magical place and to know the sweet man who lovingly cares for it. He is a warm and gentle soul who makes me laugh every time I see him. He also happens to makes a glorious tarte tatin. When Francis was a boy in the north of France, he and his family arrived home one day to find German soldiers occupying their house. They spent much of World War II living in their attic. How wonderful it must be that so many of his days have now been spent here. Of course I’m not the only person who loves chez Francis and each year he opens his doors to Semur for the Jardins et Santé tour, a charity that recognizes the healing powers of a beautiful garden. And as a person who was a doctor in another life, I prescribe this place for whatever ails you.

  SERVICE

  WITH A SOURIRE

  It was a big day over at the housette: appliance delivery. Now I’m no stranger to this melodrama. We’ve had to do it for every house we’ve ever had and it never fails to elicit the pleasure of say … a root canal. We’ve had it all, stoves arriving smashed, Grand Canyonesque gouges in newly sanded floors but the one that really put me over the edge took place just before we left Canada.

  Just days after finalizing the sale agreement of our house, our eight-month-old dishwasher went on the fritz and I was desperate to get it sorted for the new owners. I was dealing with a company, which out of respect shall remain nameless, Sears. The first guy said he’d fixed it. He lied. The second guy said it needed a part conveniently located in Edmonton. The third guy forgot the part and the fourth guy, technically the fifth after a no show, finally solved it but not without an earful from me. It was the famous eight-hour delivery window that especially annoyed me because on two of the five occasions I had to take a whole day off work. I tried politely explaining to him how difficult it was for me to get away from the hospital. I asked him to imagine how ridiculous I felt asking my busy colleague to cover me so I could wait all day for a dishwasher part. He was indifferent and I was enraged. I knew it had gone off the rails when I was reduced to a sarcastic tirade that suggested any disaster at the hospital that day would be all his fault. And then, just to really bring it home, I widened my eyes and lowered my voice, “Gee, I hope no one dies.” I felt badly until he offered me his considered response to my rant, “Well, I’m working too you know.” A stunning example of both punctuality and logic in very short supply.

  Now cut to a housette in France. The van from the local appliance store pulled up at two o’clock, curiously enough exactly when they said they were coming. They carefully unpacked and installed all the gear, programmed the TV and then gave us an incredibly detailed demonstration of how to use everything. Okay, in ridiculously rapid French made all the more terrifying by a thick Burgundy accent, but still. The guys knew every single thing about all the machines despite them being different brands. They apologized profusely because the dryer was delayed and would have to be delivered in a few days time, if that was satisfactory for us. Then they packed up all the boxes and asked if we would like them to cart away all the other boxes we
had lying around. And that’s the game: France 1, Canada 0. I’m not talking any one store down. I got equally crappy service from the cable and phone companies in Canada. But after this impressive display, it would be hard to go back. It was all so civilized, and I’m all about being civil. So Sears, if you would be so kind, bite me.

  HOW I SEE IT

  Only seven more sleeps until I strip down, dive into a vat of olive oil and squeeze myself into the housette. If there’s a better way to fit me in I’m all ears. Actually, I’m all legs, hence the problem. So far it’s going relatively well I’d say, the key word being relatively. Sometimes I think I’m a person so mired in egotistical fantasy, so sure that I am indeed the centre of the universe, that when evidence to the contrary presents itself I’m actually insulted. How dare reality interfere with my plans. I’d convinced myself that all I had to do was pack a few suitcases, drive 45 seconds to my new home, unpack a few suitcases, locate the corkscrew and wait to be handed the chilled nectar of the grapes.

  Not so. Neil’s work schedule is so heavy right now that things have gone from hectic to hellish. It’s all a bunch of silly things to do but things that are incredibly time consuming and frustrating here in rural France. Every time I get one thing settled and solved, something else falls out of line. Of course, in my narrow self-serving view, no one else would possibly need a van on my moving day. Well, apparently everyone and their chien needs a truck that day. So we have to drive an hour in one direction to get a van, drive an hour and a half in the other direction to pick up a sofa at Ikea (where I see that we now have our own designated parking spot) then back to the house on the river to pack up the rest of our crap. Just to add a little sparkle to the situation, some hooligans decided it would be a great idea to steal all the sewer grates and toss them in the river, Fast Times At Semur High. So there is now a big hole at the top of our driveway and the prospect of getting a van down to the door is rather dim. We’ll have to haul everything to a nearby parking lot, “we” meaning Neil and our new friend Steve, who has graciously offered to help for the promise of cold beer.

  Still, progress is being made. The TV and Internet are all set up, the golf clubs are tucked away and the cooking utensils are all unpacked and hanging from a little steel bar above the cook top. I sense a priority trend here. I was unpacking a few boxes of clothes over there this evening and I allowed myself to be overcome with that dread I experience every time we change abodes, that old familiar “this place will never be ready” foolishness. So I took a break from the toil and stepped out into the garden for some perspective.

  I saw that this place has been long ready without any interference from me and that accepting any reality is easy. I just have to change my point of view.

  THE HEAT

  OF THE MOMENT

  I am, as they say here in France, installée. Yes, installed like a towering major appliance and so far I fit just fine. I’ve only hit my head twice getting out of bed and I know from long experience that could happen to me just about anywhere. Poor Neil is exhausted from all the driving and lifting and hauling and dragging. As for me, never underestimate how draining nagging a man day and night can be. I’m all in, a veritable victim of the move. But so far it’s been worth it. I already feel at home in this little house, maybe more so than any other place I’ve lived. Of course the France factor helps matters considerably.

  At this very moment I can hear the church bells ringing and just beyond the stone wall and the lilac trees comes the high sweet voice of the child next door who just happens to speak perfect French—bastard. The sun is shining, the birds are singing and in case it sounds like I’m about to break out the tambourine and start singing Kumbaya, there’s a nest of bees in one wall of our garden, giant red-arsed bees the size of birds that I have no idea what to do about. And so far two big lizards have dropped in to say hello. Lizards. Plus, we’re fully engaged in a battle with an online furniture company. They think it’s perfectly acceptable to keep our money for a dresser that was never delivered. Oddly enough, we disagree. I don’t have a desk yet so giraffe headquarters has been reduced to a corner of the dining table and a basket in the corner under a giant spider web. And let me see, what else? Oh yes, it’s 46 degrees outside. It’s like living in Saudi Arabia only I’m allowed to drive. Okay, my husband has forbidden me to drive a standard in his presence, but that’s not the same thing at all. At least we’ve each lost a good five pounds in sweat.

  For now, I am here in my little French house and it seems that all is right in my world. I look at my husband and see a man who is completely content and having the time of his life. Not surprising for someone who regards a bowl of ice cream the same way one would a winning lottery ticket. It’s not possible to describe how hard he’s worked to make all this happen. Sometimes I wonder if he really knows how much it all means to me. I suppose I should shower him with kisses, massage his feet, tell him how wonderful he is and express my unending gratitude. And I will, just as soon as he finishes making my lunch.

  JULY

  BURIED TREASURE

  It’s Christmas in July here at the housette. After almost a year in storage and quite aptly on Canada Day, remnants of a past life are slowly making their appearance one by one as we sift through the boxes lovingly dumped in the street so long ago. I’m greatly amused by these cartons of things so necessary that they had to be shipped across a vast sea. And while I’m still scratching my head about the one white towel, there were other discoveries that offered concrete proof that I am indeed a genius.

  My beloved buddha statue that I’ve had for too many years to count. Objectively worthless but subjectively priceless. It was a joyful moment to feel the weight of it in my hand once again. Then we unwrapped this … wrapped

  Our painting by Canadian artist Shelley Mansel, my Christmas gift to Neil many years ago. No photo could ever do it justice. It’s a little piece of home which, when you’re a squillion miles away, can be very comforting. And thinking of home, this next treasure reminds us that we are both creatures of the sea, one of the few things missing from our landlocked life here in Burgundy.

  It’s a huge four-foot by four-foot canvas created by Nova Scotia artist Sara MacCulloch. It’s called Beach and if I stand in front of it long enough I can almost hear the seagulls. I’d forgotten the impact it has on me so I’m grateful we went through the trouble and expense to bring it. Then I found something really interesting.

  My meditation bench, a gift from my generous brother-in-law Scott. For some reason it doesn’t seem to have much effect unless I physically plant my arse on it. I just have to make sure it doesn’t become a handy place for drying bras. Now I know things might actually be immaterial, but every now and then there are connections to objects that cannot be denied. These seemingly inconsequential objects remind me of where I came from. They somehow define the road that led me here and today they feel important. But the most important thing I own was found hidden under a mountain of cardboard and bubble tape. A sweaty, surly redhead, Dirty Neil, who took one look at me and said, “Just try and ask me to lift one more thing. Go ahead bitch, make my day.”

  MA JOLIE HOUSETTE

  When I opened my eyes this morning in my bed tightly wedged under the sharply slanted ceiling, the first thing I saw was the wall of Semur stone located only inches from my head. At first I had my doubts about sleeping in such a tight space but I think a reminder of where I am, the moment I wake up, is a perfect way to start any day. I rolled over and examined the maze of rough wooden beams and thick pegs that hold the housette together and I marveled at the handmade nature of it all. Later, as I sat at our flea market table for breakfast and looked around our new home, the thought that came to mind was that it certainly isn’t going to make the next issue of Architectural Digest. But that’s the beauty of it. For me, the charm of this house is less about what I like …

  And more about what I don’t like. If I had come to see this house with the intention of buying it, I would have looked right
past the stone walls and beamed ceilings, the ancient stone mantle and the pretty blue doors. I would have seen only the things that needed to be “fixed,” like the distasteful (to me anyway) floor tiles. Neil, a skilled plasterer and painter, would have repaired every less than perfectly smooth surface and coated the white walls with a better shade of white. Spa inspired bathrooms are our specialty, so we would’ve devised a complicated and no doubt expensive strategy to disguise the hideous boiler mounted on the bathroom wall.

  Instead, we wisely accepted the housette as it came. As for clever strategies, the fireplace (sadly, not a working one) was converted into the wine storage area. For once I chose function over form. I decided that easy access to wine at all times was a distinct priority, no matter how offensive to my design sensibilities. The only other option was the cave, which would have required me to actually get up off my arse and go outside to get it, so the fireplace it was. I also came to another critical conclusion. The world’s smallest kitchen is only big enough for one person, and I nominate Neil.

  In our old life, we were so fuelled by the pursuit of the impeccably designed house that we sometimes lost sight of what it means to make a home. We’ve lived in so many different houses, even a few truly luxurious ones, but looking back I didn’t really have much time to enjoy them. This little house has caused me to notice something, to notice everything in fact. Now I have plenty of time to take a good look around me and see the beauty in the everyday things that make up my every day.