Finding me in France

by Bobbi French

  THE FARMER

  BRINGS A WIFE

  Well, just as I had hoped, France has opened its arms and taken us in. Don’t listen to those who tell you the French are cold and crusty, wary of the ugly North American. In less than two weeks we’ve met the warmest and kindest people imaginable. Maybe we’ve just been lucky and, to be fair, these are early days.

  Enter The Farmer, Michel (think tall, dark Depardieu) and The Wife, Patricia, a tiny woman with a constant smile. They own the house we are staying in and have lovingly restored it from a ruin into something magnificent. They’ve thought of everything here, electronic shutters, lights above the river that cast a soft glow at night, comfy beds, a kitchen equipped with everything you could imagine, fresh flowers everywhere and plenty of wood for the fireplace. Beyond that they are incredible hosts. They welcomed us with a basket of farm fresh vegetables and eggs laid that morning. A few days later they came again to see how we were getting on and to invite us for dinner. Ooh dinner on a French farm, now this was something to be excited about. But then I saw myself sitting at the table, mute and feckless, nodding at anything that sounds familiar.

  The perils of living in a new culture suddenly started smacking me in the face. What do people bring to a dinner here? What’s impolite to talk about? Will I have to eat snails? And the big one, what to wear? I mean it’s really hard to know. Last night the weather girl on TV was wearing skintight jeans and a tank top that failed to fully conceal a tatty black bra. Clearly her hair hadn’t seen a brush in some time. If this is how she presents herself for all of France to see, what the hell does one wear for a farm dinner, burlap? Well, caution to the wind because this was it, my first invitation to a French house. I resolved to do the best I could and hoped the night wouldn’t end in violence as a result of my inadvertently saying something ridiculously rude.

  As is so often the case, my worry was pointless. The food was incredible with champagne and traditional gougères (cheese puffs to die for), red and white wine from the vineyards of Beaune to complement the simmered lapin (rabbit), zucchini and bacon casserole, local cheeses, then a pear tarte handmade by the Farmer himself. They are incredibly generous people and seemed so pleased to have us. They even had a map of Canada placed it on the table so we could show them where we were from.

  I mucked about with the French and made several apparently hilarious errors but we must have done something right as they invited us back to finish the leftovers at lunch and to join them at a restaurant next week. I was relieved beyond description. I feared it would be next to impossible to ever meet anyone here, that Neil and I would spend all our time on our own and, naturally, proceed to kill each other. The thing is I know there are nasty, rude people everywhere, even in Burgundy, but we haven’t found one yet. Still, we have many more people to meet and many more difficult situations to face. For starters, there’s no sign of our stuff from Canada so I can say this: if my mattress and clothes don’t get here soon, there’ll be at least one crotchety, snarly woman in France.

  A SUNDAY IN BURGUNDY

  It’s only been a few weeks and already it seems like a lifetime ago that I left my home for this strange place. Each day is an endless stream of the unfamiliar. While on the surface many things seem the same, in reality it’s like living on another planet. This past Sunday was yet another day of discovery.

  We started with Michel and Patricia for lunch, which in French translates to champagne followed by more food than I’ve ever eaten for lunch in my life. The table looked like a buffet for a wedding. Again, the wine flowed, and it now seems likely that I’ll spend the rest of my time here half in the bag. We sampled the feast and talked, or in my case listened, and we met their younger son, 16 and madly in love with his girlfriend of a week as evidenced by the frantic rate of texting between PlayStation sessions. It’s somehow reassuring to find that a teenager in rural France is not so different from any of the Canadian kids I’ve met.

  I’ve learned that the French Sunday lunch goes on for hours and finishes just in time for dinner. After eating myself into a stupor I was ready for bed, but visits to a local autumn fair and a village antique shop were proposed and who’d say no to that? I’d never been to a country fair in my life and I assumed it would be a lot like any other in the world, but for me any outing in France is a marvel, especially when I’m slightly intoxicated. The locals were milling about, chatting and double kissing, admiring the regional fare, like honey from the flowers in the Alps and fragrant goat cheese while the kids rode ponies. But the real treat of the afternoon was a chainsaw sculpture competition. Even the woodsmen here appreciate art.

  The country antique store was a place frozen in time packed with beautifully restored armoires and dressers, vintage French postcards, old records and cameras from the 1930s, marble topped bistro tables, anything needed for a French movie set. The owner himself was like someone sent straight from French central casting with his jaunty scarf and a lit Gauloise dangling precariously from the side of his mouth the entire time we were in the shop. He was delighted to explain the history of all the pieces and was as friendly as everyone else we’ve met. We finished the day with a drive through the countryside, visits to a small vineyard and a few pretty villages and then home again right at wine o’clock.

  Now that’s what I call a Sunday. I know they won’t all be this wonderful but for now I’m happy to delude myself that this is my new weekend ritual. Of course, I’ll be 320 pounds and in alcohol rehab, but hopefully speaking much better French.

  THE VILLAGE IDIOT

  Speaking of speaking, a language update is in order. If only I knew how to say “I suck” in French. With all the time it takes to enjoy France and to set up a life in a foreign country, my French study has dwindled significantly. I have a habit of this kind of thing, procrastinating whenever increased effort makes the most sense. One would think that now that I’m actually here, learning French should be the top priority, conjugation and vocabulaire day and night. But no and there’s a price to be paid.

  The other night at the dinner on the farm, I had several opportunities to display my ignorance. I was asked what my plans were for tomorrow, to which I replied, “Yes.” Patricia laughed and again asked, “No, what are your plans for tomorrow?” patient and smiling as always. I answered, “Yes, thank you.” Everyone laughed, including me. I mean really, what else can be expected? These things take time so I’m not too worried about such minor offences.

  A little later I gathered my courage and jumped into the current topic of discussion, Sarkozy and his plans for France. I began carefully and was surprised by how well I was doing. Suddenly the words flowed out smoothly unhindered, remarkably unlike my usual halting, painfully slow speech. I gradually worked up to my typical motor mouth pace and thought, now I’m cooking. I’m a genius, immersion personified. It was at that exact moment I noticed the confused faces at the table and I felt Neil tapping me on the leg. Don’t stop me now man, can’t you see I’m on a roll? I carried on but again the leg tapping, and by then I couldn’t help but notice that Neil was regarding me with that all too familiar simultaneous look of amusement and pity. “Bobbi, my love, you’re speaking English.” And I was, which accounts for how well I was doing. But I’m sure this happens to everyone.

  As I’m quite famous for letting whatever comes into my head fall unfiltered out of my mouth, it’s not such a bad thing for me to stop and reflect a little on what I am about to unleash into the world. While I managed to laugh the whole thing off, I must admit that I did feel entirely dimwitted. I really hope I don’t become the goofy Canadian providing amusement for the French folks as I travel from town to town. Although, if it pays well enough …

  HIDDEN PLACES

  Exploration is a funny thing. The thrill of discovering a new place, a new culture, a new way of living is part of the collective experience that makes us truly feel alive. In my days as a psychiatrist, I was a master of the internal expedition. Of course one occupational hazard, and there are
many, is endless self-analysis that apparently doesn’t stop the minute you sell off the couch and set up abroad. The explored life offers much about the world but perhaps even more about us. I’ve learned that I can walk away from everything I know and be okay (so far); that I can adapt. In fact, if we take speaking French out of the equation, I’m often quite pleased with how I’m doing here. But I’m also discovering dark caves within myself that I never knew existed. And there are times when wandering around in your own head can be a dangerous endeavour.

  The other day, Neil and I went to the French immigration office in Dijon so he could begin the application for residency. We walked into a bland office filled to the rafters with people from all over the globe. It was dank and depressing and smelled like a mix between a well-used toilet and a greasy restaurant. Everyone looked so weary, so beaten down by life and death and poverty and who knows what else. I felt every pair of eyes on me, the obviously advantaged, “never seen a day of war in her life” woman. What I also couldn’t help but notice was that besides my redheaded husband, I was the only white person in the place. I don’t often think about the colour of my skin but on this day I thought about white a lot.

  I’ve spent my entire career working with the poor and neglected people of our world. I consider myself to be a person well-versed in the ills of social injustice and a dedicated soldier in the war against oppression and inequality. I support Amnesty International and V-Day. Neil and I both sponsor women in the Congo and Rwanda. Yet my first thought was that I didn’t belong here with the asylum seekers; that there must be another office for healthy, educated, people who have registered retirement savings plans. It was my first glimpse of my own unexamined sense of middle class Canadian entitlement. I was thoroughly shocked, swiftly ashamed and felt like a complete fraud. For all my donations and advocacy and all the other bullshit I get on with, I have no idea what it means not to be geopolitically privileged, nor do I have any notion of real suffering.

  What I learned from this is that true exploration requires a map to all the lovely parks and monuments but also one for the ugly backstreets and slums. This shame opened my eyes and my heart. I need to learn to be prepared for the good and the bad on this journey. So bring it on I say. I’m ready for the next slam to the system, the next discovery, no matter how hard it is to look at. It can’t be all about wine and charming villagers now can it?

  OCTOBER

  TOUR DE FRANCE

  Meanwhile I am moving forward in my quest for this much talked about simpler life. I’ve dropped out of the rat race, as they say, and one thing I’ve noticed so far is how much I enjoy the freedom from traffic. These days getting stuck behind a slow moving tractor is as bad as it gets. I still miss my car but I am exploring alternative modes of transportation. As I said, I’ve had some pretty wild fantasies about life in France including zipping around town on a bicyclette. Well, fantasy and reality are closing in on each other, as I am now the proud owner of the best French bicycle ever made. Initially, I was insistent on a vintage bicycle complete with a wicker basket and a shiny bell, but in a rare fit of rational thought and consideration of practicalities I went for the Gitane E-bike.

  Now this beauty does have the required basket for pretending that I’m Audrey (Hepburn, Tautou, either one will do) but instead of romantic wicker it’s black metal, which I have to say is a far better choice for wet weather (because I so love to ride a bike in the rain) and for holding several heavy bottles of wine, so clever me. But the genius of this bicycle is the switch on the left handle. One press of a button and, like magic, a battery charged motor kicks in to assist the pedals. It’s like having Lance Armstrong hidden in your backpack ready to spring out when you hit a steep hill. Semur has many daunting inclines and I was more than a little curious as to how my 42-year-old pins would carry my equally old arse to the bakery. With this machine, I’ll be unstoppable.

  So today I took it out for a test spin, inspired by visions of the wind blowing through my hair as I effortlessly travelled mile after country mile, movie star meets Olympic cyclist. Of course I’d forgotten that I had scrapped my long blonde hair for the spiky scarecut, so by the time I got home I looked less like Catherine Deneuve and more like Billy Idol. I also forgot that I haven’t been on a bike since I was 15 so I mostly weaved about like a toddler in need of training wheels. And speaking of old arses, mine is so sore from the ride that I can hardly sit down. So much for my hopes for the yellow jersey this year.

  What is quite intriguing here is that when people (mostly the men) ride bikes, they gear up with as many complicated cycling accoutrements as possible. They wear aerodynamic racing helmets, special cycling shoes and wildly patterned lycra shorts and shirts, I mean it’s serious business. I must have been quite the sight in my sweats and clogs. Never mind, the next time I hit the road I plan to sidle up to these cycling snobs, kick into electric mode and yell, “Eat my dust, fellas!” as I rocket into the ditch.

  LOST AND FOUND

  Finally, yesterday morning came the call that a truck would be arriving to Etrochey in fifteen minutes. Not just any truck but one with clothing, Neil’s Big Mac work computer and of course, our beloved mattress. Needless to say, this was exceedingly welcome news 13 days beyond the expected date. Neil had been wearing the same three T-shirts and two pairs of pants for weeks and had one lightweight jacket, not at all suitable for the now chilly autumn nights. But who cares about him? He’s irrelevant and inconsequential. It’s all about me, and I want my mattress.

  Neil went out to meet the truck, which could not (later revealed would not) come all the way to the front door. Of course it was pouring rain. Now, let me just say that we paid extra for air shipping so that there would be no delay, and as well for the distinct pleasure of having someone gently place our items inside the house. I know this because it’s printed quite clearly in a contract I signed.

  I was preparing to make coffee for the hefty French hommes who would soon be tracking mud all over the house, but after about half an hour of nothing going on I decided to see what the hold-up was. I went out and was shocked to see my husband of few words fully engaged in a very animated conversation with one really skinny man. I use the word man loosely as he appeared to be about 16 years old. But imagine my relief when I saw that the garçon had brought his trusty helper, a young lass dressed to go out dancing, heels and all, his girlfriend, who had come along for the ride. Mon Dieu.

  Apparently the garçon was not remotely prepared to unload the goods, had no way of cracking open our large wooden crate and was less than pleased that we kept waving a contract at him. I could actually see my beloved mattress in the back of the truck and it was all I could do to not push everyone aside so I could drag it out and flop down on it in the middle of the street. But I refrained, as suddenly the garçon became quite enraged and started violently jumping on the crate, which seemed to do the trick. I must remember that unbridled rage is the solution to every problem. Then he started tossing the boxes one by one into the street. Merde. Neil and I had to carry the now wet and mushy boxes all the way down to the house. For some reason the moving company had repacked everything so I had no idea of what was where. Customs had ripped open several boxes creating several deep slices through the contents, and we found Neil’s level (apparently a crucial item for a life in France) sticking out the back of a valuable painting. I assume it was these little extras that cost so much.

  As I waded through the carnage, I noticed the two wardrobe boxes with my clothes were missing. We looked and looked but they were nowhere to be found. Of course the golf clubs and all of Neil’s clothes so easily found at the Gap made it. My years of trolling the world for pants flashed before my eyes and immediately grief began to set in. Insurance was little consolation in this case. Never mind the time, where the hell would I find the strength for clothes shopping that for a giraffe like me in a foreign country would border on lunacy? I kept saying over and over in my head, things don’t matter. Then I would remember my Max Mara c
uffed black dress pants found years ago in Rome or my grey linen ones not even worn yet and I had to fight back the tears.

  Several hours later, after everything was accounted for, I found two flat misshapen boxes tucked in a corner. Like a savage I ripped them open and sweet salvation lay within. I swear I heard choirs singing. So much for detachment from possessions. Having experienced the loss for even a short time has confirmed that the simple life is one where I wear the pants in the family.