Ingredient Four
PASSION
20
THE AMERICAN INVASION
Family is the craziest kind of love. And now that I was finally settled and happy in France, I couldn’t wait to share my new life with my parents and sister. But, before my family would see Cugnaux and Toulouse, they were going to experience the sea and the sun of the Mediterranean. Isabelle had invited everybody to stay with her and Richard in Provence for a few days, so my family was flying into Marseille and out of Toulouse. Jean-Luc and I drove the four hours to pick them up at Marignane airport. My mother bounced up and down with excitement, like a hyperactive kid that had eaten way too much candy.
“Aren’t you tired?” I asked.
“How could I be? This is the best trip ever,” said my mom. She put her arms around my sister and me, the three of us crammed into the back seat of our Ford. “I’ve got my two beautiful girls, my husband, and my amazing son-in-law. I’m so excited! I’m going to see France through the eyes of a Frenchman.”
Jess and I jabbed her in the ribs. Jean-Luc eyed us in the rearview mirror, his eyes crinkled with laughter. He shook his head, but didn’t say a word.
“What?” asked my mom.
“Come up with your own material. You just quoted one of Jean-Luc’s old letters,” I said.
“I did?”
“Sam, did you let your parents’ dogs read my letters, too?” asked Jean-Luc.
Then, he burst out into a wide grin, his laugh warm and soft and infectious.
“Welcome to France. Your tour guide for the next ten days is the incredible Jean-Luc,” I said. “I really hope you guys got a little sleep on the plane, because he has a nonstop itinerary planned. There’s a party at Isabelle’s tonight. Maxime, her son, is heading off to Canada in a few weeks for university. It’s a welcome party for you, a good-bye party for him.”
My dad turned to face us, his jaw dropped. He looked exhausted from the long flight and probably wanted to relax. But Isabelle had already planned this get-together months in advance. I gave him my Cabbage Patch Kid closed-mouth smile. Forty minutes later, we pulled up to Isabelle and Richard’s, a beautiful Provençal home painted pale yellow with dark green shutters and a terra-cotta roof. I loved the warmth of this home at Christmas, and it was even better in the summer. The garden was in full bloom, bright, big, beautiful roses in every color. The pool sparkled in the sunlight, reflecting the sky, the Garlaban Mountains in the distance peeking through the tall pine trees surrounding the property. The cicadas chirped out their melodies. It was a Provençal paradise. I especially loved the thatch-roofed outdoor kitchen with the long table overlooking all of this beauty, now set up for a family gathering.
“I am ’appy to meet you,” said Richard. Unfortunately, Richard hadn’t been able to attend the California wedding. A doctor, he’d just opened up a new radiology center and couldn’t get away. He and Isabelle embraced my parents and sister in an enthusiastic round of la bise. “Welcome!”
“Your home reminds me a little bit of ours in California,” said my mom. Her assessment was true, and probably another one of the million reasons I loved visiting Provence. It was home. It was family. And everyone was together. “You’ll have to visit us sometime,” said my mom.
“What did she say?” asked Richard, and I translated.
“Tell her when we come to visit, we’re not staying for four days, but for four months.”
“What did he say?” asked my mom, I told her, and we all burst out laughing.
While my parents and sister unpacked and settled in, Jean-Luc and I headed off to Meme’s to kidnap the kids for one night. They would spend more time with my family back in Toulouse. Soon, the kids were swimming in the pool, playing with their cousins—Maxime and Steeve, and his fiancée, Laura. Isabelle was preparing for the night’s festivities, so I offered to help. Unlike me whenever I hosted parties and dinners, she was completely unstressed. This was—and is—the French way. Tonight was a cocktail apéro-dînatoire—not a formal dinner, but rather a selection of hot and cold finger foods served buffet style. Although she had hired a caterer to provide most of the dishes, Isabelle had also made a few quiches, les tartes salées (savory tarts), and a huge bowl of pasta salad. I helped her set up the chairs, dishes, and wine glasses. My French was improving every day, and conversations with Isabelle were easier to manage. We spoke about life in general, my miscarriages, and her first marriage to the father of her two sons, Steeve and Maxime. As long as Isabelle’s ear was mine, and there were no intruders, I’d been dying to find out one thing. “Do you and Richard ever plan on getting married?”
She broke out into a wide grin. “Et, alors, I should be Madame Richard next summer, the wedding right here in the garden, just like you and Jean-Luc!”
I gave her a hug—the big American kind. “An early félicitations!”
By nine p.m., the house was packed, the party in full swing. Jean-Luc’s mother was still in poor health, so she wouldn’t be in attendance, nor Michel, his hermit crab of a brother, but his dapper dad, André, was coming over with his sister Muriel, Alain, her husband, and their kids, Anaïs and Arnaud. Spicy rum punch was poured and the revelry began. There were four Americans and thirty French, which also meant la bise didn’t end. Richard was seated at the head of the long table in the outdoor kitchen. “Jessica, do you have a boyfriend?” he asked and I translated.
“No, not right now.”
“Eh ben, I have the perfect guy for you.” He paused, dramatically, until everybody had his full attention. “He’s very handsome. A doctor, like me, he’s in a good position. He’s in excellent shape. He’s funny, charming, and he has a lot of friends…” His smile turned sinister. “But there’s just one little problem…” Another dramatic pause. He held up his hand, leveling it two or three feet from the ground. “He’s a very little man.” Richard waited for the laughter to die down, and continued. “Nobody’s perfect, Jessica.”
Jessica turned to me, mouth dropped, eyes streaming with tears of laughter. “Tell him I like my men tall.”
“Tall, you say?” He held up a finger. “Eh, ben, I know another man for you. He’s very handsome. He’s in a good position. He’s in excellent shape. He’s funny, charming, and he has a lot of friends…but there’s just one little problem…” Another dramatic pause. “Do you own a razor?”
Jess nodded, understanding the French.
“Good,” said Richard. “Because he’s completely covered in hair and needs to be shaved every two or three days.”
I clasped my hands over my stomach, which hurt from laughing so hard. For once, I wasn’t the target of the familial hazing. Richard, now in clown mode, launched into a few more potential prospects, changing Jessica’s ideal mate right after “But there’s just one little problem,” offering to set her up with a mute quadriplegic, a toothless drunk missing most of his fingers, and a guy who might be half-monkey. Richard was in rare form tonight. And he wasn’t even drinking.
“Tony,” said Richard when the laughter died down. “Do you like Elvis?”
“J’adore Elvis,” said my dad. Having studied the language of love in high school and college, my dad used to be fluent in French. He’d even traveled by motorcycle throughout France and Europe in his twenties. Now that he had shaken the jet lag off, the basic skills were coming back to him.
“Me, too.” Richard pulled out his cell phone and played a YouTube video of Elvis singing “Hallelujah.” He sang along at the top of his lungs, standing up and belting out the chorus.
“Oh no,” I said with a giggle. “Pas encore, Richard.” Not again.
Jean-Luc’s father’s eyebrows lifted. He shook his head. “I have a very bizarre family.”
A very bizarre family that I loved.
My mom pulled me aside. “How on earth do you deal with the language? My head is spinning.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I don’t understand anything they are saying. I just nod and smile.”
I thought a
bout my first Christmas in France, when I had felt out of place and could barely speak, let alone understand, the language. “Believe me, Mom, it took some getting used to. And I still do a lot of smiling and nodding—especially when they talk fast.”
The Americans didn’t retreat to bed until well after midnight.
Save for Jean-Luc and me, nobody woke up until eleven the next morning. I stayed at Isabelle’s when Jean-Luc dropped the kids back off at their grandmother’s, just in case my parents needed a translator, coffee, or breakfast. Then Jean-Luc’s job as French cruise director began. We piled into the car, taking off for Aix-en-Provence for a late lunch. My mom and sister were antsy—there were shops, shops and more shops, and they were ready to go nuts. At the open-air market, my mom bought a panama hat and Jessica bought herbes de Provence grown in Provence. In the late afternoon, we found ourselves back at Isabelle’s, relaxing and floating in the pool listening to the cicadas—a good thing, too, because from here on out the action would be nonstop.
The next morning’s agenda included a quick coffee and a couple of croissants, followed by a drive to the small medieval village of Le Castellet, inland from Jean-Luc’s hometown of La Ciotat. We hadn’t even been there a second when my mom and sister beelined into one of the shops selling French linens and soaps. My dad rolled his eyes.
“Your wife,” said Jean-Luc, “does she not like history?”
“Oh, she does, but only the history of Coco Chanel.” My dad nodded his head toward me. “You’re lucky the shopping gene skipped a generation with this one.”
Jean-Luc put his arm around me. “Oui, Tony, I am. She is a very special girl.”
“Sam, go get your mom,” said my dad.
Per her usual habits, my mom just liked to look; most of the time she couldn’t make up her mind, so she rarely actually purchased anything. After I dragged my mom away from some lavender-scented soaps, which, thanks to me, she already had at home, Jean-Luc’s posture straightened, and he announced in a low voice, “Next stop on the frog tour. A quick glimpse of La Ciotat and then the beach of Cassis.”
As we set off on another adventure, Jean-Luc pointed out the local sites on the way—the old shipping yard, the Eden theater, where the first movie in the world was shown, and the beach where and he and his friends had picked up girls from all over Europe. He pulled the car over on the cliffs separating La Ciotat from Cassis, offering my parents and sister the awe-inspiring view he’d already shared with me.
“I’d love to see this from the water,” said my mom.
“That’s tomorrow. My friend, Gilles, is taking us out on his boat.”
“Wonderful!” My mom clapped her hands together like a small child. “What was his wife’s name again? I really liked her. It was so nice of them to come to your wedding.”
“Her name was Nathalie.”
“Did something happen to her?” asked Jess.
“In a way. She and Gilles are now divorced.”
Time to change the subject. “Who wants mussels?” I asked.
From the highway, the breathtakingly beautiful colors of the magnificent landscape were especially vivid in the summer—yellow, salmon, and orange buildings settled among a backdrop of green. Cassis itself was nestled in a bay, surrounded by lush vineyards and, on the shore, sheltered inlets known as calanques. Because we’d arrived late, we had to park rather far from the village. But that was okay. There were free navettes (buses) to take us into town. After a lunch of salads with chèvre chaud (warm goat cheese) and mussels, which were technically not in season, but still tasty, we found an open spot on the beach and settled into the rocky plateau—watching adorable French children play, some of the little girls topless.
Regarding that stereotype: most women in France don’t sunbathe topless, unless they are under the age of ten, over sixty, or at a nude beach in Cap d’Agde. When we were in the Porquerolles, I’d asked the kids what they thought about the older ladies splashing in the water, breasts out.
“Bof. C’est naturel,” was Max’s response. It was natural.
And that was very true. It was natural, not exhibitionism or even sexual—just a human body. Not that I’d ever sunbathe topless in public. I tried it once when I was nineteen, when traveling Europe with Tracey, only to learn that I’m not wired that way. I came back to Syracuse University, and one of the bartenders yelled, “Hey, I know you! I saw you topless in Greece! Your nipples are the size of dimes!”
So, yes, the ladies were staying in the confines of my bikini top.
My dad and Jean-Luc were in the water for over an hour, smiling and laughing and talking. This, for me, was a rare occurrence. My dad and Chris, my ex, had never truly bonded. Not like this. My mom noticed the connection as well. She propped herself up on her elbows. “He’s so nice.”
“He is.”
A spark of hope lit up her eyes. “Are you going to try for a baby again?”
Oh God, not that question. Instead of putting myself on the defense, I was honest.
“Well, I’d like to become pregnant before my birthday, which gives us two months, and then I don’t know. It’s hard with you and dad being so far away. And Jean-Luc’s sisters don’t exactly live around the corner. There’s a lot to think about. On verra.”
We’ll see.
Jean-Luc padded his way over to the shore, my dad close behind. “We’ve got to get going,” he said. “Tonight, we’ve been invited over to my co-worker’s, Simone, for an apéritif. She and her husband have a house in La Ciotat, right on the water.” He looked at his watch. “We have just enough time to head back to Isabelle’s, shower, and change, and then we’ll make our way back here.” Jean-Luc cleared his throat. “Oh, before Simone’s, we’re stopping by my parents’.”
On the ride over into La Ciotat, Jean-Luc overexplained his family’s situation, saying things like, “They don’t live in a place like Isabelle’s. It’s simple. It’s where I grew up,” and, “My mother is in really bad health. She might be killing my father. I’d like for them to move, but she refuses.”
My dad put a stop to his insecurities. “Jean-Luc, they raised you. And obviously they did a great job.”
Jean-Luc’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “You and Anne did a pretty good job, too.”
The visit with Jean-Luc’s parents was short, but sweet. Unfortunately, Madame Vérant’s health had declined even more since the last time we’d seen her. As we made our way back to the car, I grabbed Jean-Luc’s hand, squeezing it. “I wish my father would put her in a home. He really can’t take care of her anymore. It’s too hard on him,” he said and turned to my family. “I’m sorry about that.”
“What’s to be sorry about, Jean-Luc?” asked my dad. “Your parents are wonderful.”
“Alors, they’re mine.” Jean-Luc blew out the air in between his lips. “On to the next stop.”
After another round of champagne toasts and light-hearted conversation at Simone’s home, we found ourselves seated on the inside terrace of Chez Tania. Situated in the calanque de Figuerolles, the restaurant offered a view of the sea and the famed Bec de l’Aigle, a rock cropping reminiscent of an eagle’s beak. We’d be eating under the full moon, enjoying the music of the symbol of Provence—the cicadas. The view of the sea and the rising cliffs bathed in the orange and pink sunset was breathtaking.
The next day, before setting off into the wild blue yonder on a boat with the even wilder Gilles, Claude, another childhood friend of Jean-Luc’s, invited our family over to his house for an apéritif at ten-thirty in the morning. My parents were thrilled. Claude and his wife, Danielle, had also made the trip for the California wedding, and my parents loved both of them, as did I. How could we not? They were, as the French say, chaleureux—warm, open, and friendly. Claude greeted us with his huge, toothy smile and a bottle of champagne, explaining that Danielle was at work and sent her hellos.
“Isn’t it a little early for that?” asked Jean-Luc, eyeing the champagne bottle, and my dad agreed.
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br /> My sister said, “It’s never too early for champagne.”
“When in France,” said my mom.
I loved visiting Claude, not only to see him, but also his unbalanced cat, Mario, who randomly tipped over for no reason at all. Soon, Mario had my whole family in stitches, running around in the yard and falling down like an old drunk. My mom gushed about how much she loved Mario and Claude’s beautiful Provençal home—the ironwork, the tiles, and the well-equipped country kitchen. Claude raised his glass. “I have an idea. We can do a house exchange one year! I’d love to go to California again.”
They toasted, and I wondered if Claude knew exactly what he’d just gotten himself into, because on the ride to Saint-Cyr-sur-Mer, the village in which Gilles docked his thirty-foot speedboat, the house exchange was all my mother could talk about. We picked up some jambon and fromage baguettes at the local boulangerie, and, in less than ten minutes, we were zipping off into the Med with our crazed captain, Gilles, the wind whipping through our hair, the water glistening ahead of us. Gille’s nineteen-year-old daughter Julie and her friend were joining us as well, and we stopped to pick them up at a little port in La Ciotat.
A beautiful girl, Julie was tall with shoulder-length dark brown hair. She was wearing oversized black sunglasses, which in typical French fashion, she placed on top of her head when the required round of la bise was swapped. In a dash of sophistication, her pearl earrings matched her tiny bikini. Her friend, whose name I didn’t catch, had a sexy look about her—long sun-kissed hair that reached the middle of her tiny back. She didn’t have love handles or a double chin. I cringed and put my T-shirt on to hide the rolls on my stomach, the baguettes. The two taut, tanned beauties left to make themselves comfortable on the bow of the boat.
How to Make a French Family Page 19