Jean-Luc motioned his hand toward a white house with brown wooden shutters. “In France, many doctors practice out of their homes.”
“But—”
There were no buts.
Before I knew it, we were opening the front gate, where a yellow Labrador retriever puppy darted around the front yard like an escaped mental patient. He jumped onto my jeans, dirtying them with muddy paws. “I hope this isn’t the doctor,” I said, trying to make a joke to settle my live-wire nerves.
“Very funny, Sam.” Jean-Luc took me by the hand. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
We sidestepped the puppy and entered the salle d’attente. Complete with year-old magazines in the racks, it was like any other waiting room I’d grown accustomed to, save for the fact that we were the only clients in it and there was no wait. A woman in her late sixties with short gray hair and a long charcoal skirt introduced herself in a perfunctory manner and led us into her office. Besides Jean-Luc helping with some translations, everything seemed to be routine until the doctor ushered me into the exam room, demanding that I undress and install myself on the table. I searched for the giant paper towel, a hospital gown, to no avail. She turned her back on me, but didn’t leave the room.
Pants-less, and hoping I’d understood her correctly, I hopped up onto the exam table, making a mental note to find another doctor—one who spoke at least three words of English, and, after some probing and prodding, one who didn’t scare my pants off. After telling me that women in France go through rééducation périnéale after childbirth, where a woman’s vagina goes through physical therapy to strengthen the pelvic floor with an electric wand so you won’t struggle with incontinence—and can soon have sex with your husband again (how French!)—and that the fifteen or so sessions would be covered by our insurance, she sent me on my way with two prescriptions, one for some blood work, and one for an ultrasound.
“I want to find another doctor,” I said to Jean-Luc on the ride home. “That woman didn’t have the greatest bedside manner.”
“Doctors in France are serious,” he said.
A few days later, the blood work confirmed the pregnancy, and there was no mistaking the tiny life displayed on the ultrasound monitor. According to the measurements, I was six weeks along, or bien enceinte (well pregnant), as the French said. With two grainy printouts of undeniable proof in hand, I called my mom.
“I saw the heartbeat today.”
She couldn’t contain herself. And so, the baby planning began, my mom emailing me pictures of furniture and toys every ten minutes. Dragonflies and butterflies for a girl, a jungle theme for a boy.
“Don’t tell anyone, Mom. It’s still early.”
“I won’t. But I’m so excited! I’m going to be a grandma!”
Her excitement was so palpable, I could practically feel it zapping me through the phone. I was doomed. She wouldn’t be able to hold this kind of news in. Resigned to my fate, when we hung up, I called up the other two people I’d planned on telling—first Jessica, and then Tracey, the conversations nearly identical.
“Well, I’ve got some news—”
“You’re pregnant.”
“Yep.”
A scream. “How did it happen?”
“Are you serious?” I asked.
“I meant when.”
“By the dates, right when I got back from California. After Thanksgiving.”
Apparently, absence not only made the heart grow fonder; it created a baby bump.
Every day swelled with excitement. I couldn’t wait to tell the kids our news of “Jack or Jill the Bean,” but I was holding off for a bit—until I knew it was safe. I hoped this significant change in their worlds wouldn’t be difficult for them. I hoped they wouldn’t be jealous.
Most of our family discussions took place at the dinner table, where no subject went untouched, including sex and Jean-Luc’s salary—two topics I’d never dare to discuss with my own father. I didn’t know if it was the French way of communicating or just a “my family” thing. So I was surprised when, over a raclette—a machine that melts the cheese one pours over a variety of charcuterie and vegetables, a bit like fondue—and salad, Elvire announced, “I have my period.”
But I was even more surprised with eleven-year-old Max’s response. “Ah bon? Were you the first of your friends?”
Jean-Luc’s held his hands up in mock surrender. “Sam, you’ll have to help her.”
“I’m a woman, and I’ve got this,” I said with a smile. “Félicitations, Elvire! You’re no longer a little girl. You’re a little woman now! So, tampons are…”
Max grimaced. Jean-Luc looked panicked. Apparently, some subjects were taboo at the table after all. I picked up on all the looks, the hints.
“Okay. I’ll take Elvire upstairs for a chat after dessert,” I said.
Elvire smiled.
It was January 6, which came with the traditional dessert called a galette des rois (king’s cake), a brioche flavored with fleur d’oranger (orange flower essence), to celebrate the Epiphany, when the baby Jesus was presented to the Three Wise Men. In the past, the cake was cut into portions, corresponding to the number of guests, plus one. This extra slice was known as the part du pauvre (the poor man’s share), the slice given to the needy. Since the late seventeenth to early eighteenth century, under the reign of Louis the XIV, une fève, a small porcelain figurine depicting Mary or another nativity character, was hidden inside the cake. Whoever found the fève was crowned queen or king for the day, the paper crown supplied by the local boulangerie. Today, thanks to commercialization, we find cartoon characters like the minions or Bugs Bunny or Les Lapins Crétins. My rocket scientist may have not been a religious man, but he had faith, and he was fierce when it came to upholding French traditions. Important for any French family, these events were what people grew up with, no matter their beliefs. Traditions held families together, instilling values, a sense of comfort and belonging, and a way to celebrate, really celebrate, what mattered in life. Traditions also created memories, a time for reflection. Max poked his fingers into his slice. Elvire did too. Jean-Luc shrugged.
The fève—Minnie Mouse—was in my slice. The kids cheered, Jean-Luc placed the paper crown on my head, and I was queen for one day. With my recent pregnancy surprise, this had to be a positive sign. It just had to be. I was rich with love, and this moment would be etched into my memories forever.
Day after day, my initial pregnancy fears turned into joy. When I wasn’t ruling my royal realm with a velvet glove, I turned to my friend, the Internet, to track the pregnancy on TheBump.com. At eight weeks, the fetus was the size of a raspberry, or a small bean, the reason Jean-Luc nicknamed the life growing inside of me Jack the Bean. I combed through the site, absorbing as much information as I could. I avoided Bella as if the plague infected her—especially after she’d confused Max with a tree and climbed up his leg, scratching his behind. Most French women are immune to toxoplasmosis, but, as a foreigner in France, I was at high risk for the parasitic disease carried in the feces of cats. My doctor had given me a prescription for monthly blood screenings at the local laboratory. I peeled my tomatoes, cut out caffeine, and avoided undercooked meats. I did everything by the book.
I was on the website when Max came up the stairs. I closed out of the browser and quickly opened up an email just as he tapped me on the shoulder. A new fan of American sports, he was holding the baseball bat and glove my dad had purchased for him when we were in California. Jean-Luc and my dad had taken him to see the Angels play.
“You can play baseball with moi ? Dans le parc? ”
I pointed to my computer. “Later, Maxou,” adding the ou like the French do, a sign of endearment.
“S’il te plait? ” he asked, looking at me with moony eyes.
The lyrics from Harry Chapin’s “Cat’s in the Cradle” ran through my head. By the time the chorus hit my brain, Max’s smile had turned into the saddest of disappointed pouts. He walked into his room, h
ead hung low. I was a goner. With Jean-Luc always working, it was up to me to throw the ball. I made a mental note to pitch underhand, so as not stress my body out. But first I checked Babybump.com to make sure light exercise was okay. It was.
“D’accord, Max,” I said, tapping on his door. “On y va.”
Okay. Let’s go.
That evening, we were all watching TV in the living room, save for Elvire. who was watching streaming videos, no doubt, in her room. Max wiggled his way over from Jean-Luc to my side of the couch and placed his head on my shoulder.
“Merci pour aujourd’hui,” he said.
11
ONLINE (FRIEND) DATING
When I was a pigtail-sporting four-year-old wearing homemade flowered dresses, my mom used to bring me to the playground in front of Lincoln Park Zoo in Chicago. She’d sit on a bench and read a magazine, shooing me away to have fun with the other kids. But until somebody called out to me with a “Hey, you,” I just stood on the sidelines with a creepy Cabbage Patch Kid smile, watching the children as they ran round and round, shoes kicking up dirt and sand, as they’d jump and spin gleefully on the merry-go-round. Sometimes the kids called out to me, and I joined in with their games. Sometimes they didn’t.
As an expat living in a foreign land, starving for friendship, I couldn’t be bashful or just sit around waiting for friends. If I was truly going to be happy in France and not torture my family with subjects they couldn’t care less about or that made them cringe—like the latest romantic comedy or the weird, crunchy chin hair I had to keep plucking—I needed my own friends. And, honestly, I was tired of everybody correcting my French when I opened my mouth.
“It’s for your own benefit,” Jean-Luc would say when he corrected my pronunciation. Perhaps in the long run. But if I snapped, it wouldn’t be good for anybody. I truly needed a break from conjugating. Enter the expat blog with a whole section dedicated to the Toulouse area. I put up an introductory post. A couple of hours later, I received a response.
Hi Samantha,
Nice to meet you—my name is Monique and I’ve just moved to Toulouse (from L.A. but via Paris after eight years). I’m in the center of town and don’t know a soul. I am married to a Frenchman and have a 10-month-old little girl. I work from home, so socially I know it will be even more difficult to meet new people. If you’re free one afternoon, would you like to meet for a coffee? Thanks and look forward to hearing from you.
Cheers!
It was so serendipitous! A girl from L.A.! Also married to a Frenchman! I emailed her back immediately and, after a round of rapid-fire exchanges, we made plans to get together. Shortly after this, Oksana from Canada contacted me too. She had also been in touch with Monique. And she was also involved with a Frenchman. It seemed I was on my way to making friends with women of similar backgrounds and interests. I was thrilled at the prospect. Of course, I deleted the messages from creepy men who wanted to get together for a drink and exchange “cultural” ideas.
It was the beginning of January when I finally had my Internet date with Monique, my Californian counterpoint, in Toulouse. Oksana, our Canadian neighbor, would be joining us, too. Since she lived in centre ville, Monique took charge. We agreed to meet in front of the Midica, a store that sold home and kitchen goods, right by the Esquirol station in Toulouse at half past twelve. For the love of cuisine, of course, I knew Midica!
Monique, Oksana, and I sent each other descriptions of what we looked like and what we’d be wearing. We all had blond hair and blue eyes. In Toulouse, the majority of French women had straight, chestnut brown hair with the occasional (and sometimes shocking) “Power Violet” or “Hot Chili Red” that seemed to be in fashion for les femmes d’un certain âge. It was going to be easy to spot my North American cronies.
Door to door, it took about twenty-five minutes to get from my home to centre ville via the bus and metro, the bus ride a harrowing journey. I hung onto my seat as the driver drove over, not around, the roundabouts. A petite blond paced in front of Midica like a caged nervous bird. I made my approach, hoping she wouldn’t fly away. “Oksana?”
She eyed my brown boots. “Samantha?”
“C’est moi.”
She threw her arms around my neck and we quickly swapped la bise. “I’m so happy to meet you! You don’t know how long I’ve been in France without any friends. I’ve been driving Philippe crazy.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Two years,” she said.
In five months, I’d nearly gone batty. How could she have waited so long? She answered my question before I could ask it.
“I met a few people on the expat blog when I first moved here,” Oksana said. “But all they did was complain about France and how much they hated it. I couldn’t stand it because I wanted to like it here and didn’t want to surround myself with negativity. So, I took a little break from trying to connect with people.” She paused. “Do you like living here?”
“It took some time to adjust, but I’m happy now.”
“Thank God,” she said. “And I know what you mean. It’s overwhelming in the beginning.”
Oksana spoke a mile a minute, her voice high and melodic. About five-foot-three, she had shoulder-length blond hair, and a cheerful smile as big her eyes. I loved her warmth, but I was confused; her accent wasn’t Canadian. There was a slight hint of something else. With her name, I was thinking she was from Russia…perhaps even a spy for Jean-Luc’s ex, Natasha? I couldn’t stop the thought from popping into my head.
Since the finalization of their divorce, Natasha hadn’t contacted Jean-Luc or the kids. But I knew she was out there. Thanks to a program I’d installed on my blog called StatCounter, which listed the names of the cities and villages people visit from, as well as what posts they looked at, how long they stayed on my site, and what they’d downloaded, I knew Natasha stalked my page, visiting it for hours at a time. But she wasn’t the only one with Mata Hari tendencies. With a little Google espionage, and more than just slight curiosity, I had discovered that Natasha had married another Frenchman (three months before Jean-Luc and I had tied the knot) and now lived in a village north of Toulouse.
“Do you know anybody named Natasha?” I asked.
Oksana squinted. “Who?”
“Never mind,” I said, shaking off the paranoid thought. “Philippe is your husband?”
“Well, almost husband. We’ve been paxed for two years now.” She paused. “We’re going to get married soon, though. I just don’t know when. There’s been too much going on.”
While preparing all the papers for my own French marriage, I’d done enough due-diligence to know that a “PACs” agreement—the pacte civil de solidarité—was a civil union between two adults—almost like a marriage, but not quite.
Another blond approached us with confidence in her stride. “Hey, ladies. I’m Monique.” Introductions were made and—a never-ending cycle of kisses in the south of France—we exchanged la bise again. “Love your boots, Sam. I spotted them a mile away.”
Oksana’s gaze shot from my face to Monique’s and back again. “Oh my God. You two look like you could be sisters.”
It was true. Monique and I both had long, straight highlighted blond hair around the same length, and blue eyes. We were about the same height. And we were both wearing similar black coats and leather boots that hit just below the knee.
“What are you saying, Oksana? Girls from California all look alike?” asked Monique, crossing her arms over her chest.
“No, no, no,” said Oksana with a little squeak. “I, uh, was that rude?”
“I’m just messing with you,” said Monique. “Ready to head to lunch? I know a great place just around the corner.”
“Wait,” said Oksana. “I hope you don’t mind, but another girl from the expat blog will be joining us.”
“The more the merrier,” said Monique.
A beautiful brunette joined the three blonds. Trupty introduced herself and another round of bi
sous was exchanged. Clearly, kisses were a habit for all of us now. The four of us walked down the cobbled street of Rue d’Alsace-Lorraine, the main shopping drag in Toulouse, heading over to Place St. Georges for lunch. Ten minutes later, we were chatting at a salon de thé as though we’d known each other for years. I told them my story of how I’d met Jean-Luc and how we’d reconnected, fallen in love, and married twenty years later, and in turn they shared their stories.
Monique, now forty-two, had moved to Paris ten years prior. She’d met her husband at a bar during the canicule (heat wave) of 2003. When she saw Jean-Christophe, better known as JC, a tall, handsome Frenchman, she pointed to him and said to her girlfriends, “That one is so gorgeous. He’s mine.” Eventually, JC, tired of being stared at by three cute girls, made his approach, and the rest was history. A few years after their initial flirtation, Monique and JC moved in together, and now they’d been married for eight years. They’d moved from Paris to Toulouse right when she’d contacted me on the expat blog. Like Jean-Luc, JC worked in the aerospace industry, while Monique worked for an American film distribution company, selling foreign rights for their films.
Oksana, like me, had been through a divorce, and her story was surprisingly similar to mine. When she was back in Canada, she’d set a goal for herself: learn French. She’d joined a pen pal site, which was how she met Philippe, who wanted to brush up on his English. After months of communicating through letters, Philippe flew to Canada to meet her in person as friends. But le coup de foudre struck, and they fell head over heels in love. For a while, she and Philippe had a tenuous long-distance relationship, flying back to Canada and France, until Oksana took the leap, daring to follow her heart, finally settling in France two years prior. A nurse back in Canada, she was having problems finding a job because the French government didn’t recognize her diploma as being equivalent to their own. She was in the process of applying to nursing schools in Toulouse with the hopes she’d qualify for one year of training instead of four. Until the pieces fell into place, she’d been flying back to Canada for six weeks at a time to work.
How to Make a French Family Page 10