Finding me in France

by Bobbi French

  Now the good thing is that this will be the ultimate on-the-job training experience for a life in French property. The not so good thing is that it will also be the ultimate marriage test. By the end of it I hope we won’t be communicating solely through our lawyers. Here’s my master plan: design the merde out of the house, move in and if for some reason I have to resort to a life of crime to make ends meet (there has to be a brothel out here somewhere), we’ll turn it into a vacation rental and find somewhere else to live. So it’s a risk, but at least a calculated and briefly considered one. I’m sure someone will remind me in four months that I said this.

  We’ve already scoped out a few other projects in the area and vive la différence. Trades people, or artisans as they are called here, are highly trained and assume full responsibility for their work for a period of ten years. Imagine. They take pride in their work, are very respectful and so far not a plumber’s crack in sight. Surely this is the way to go. I once came home to find two workmen covered in dust and grime sitting on my off white dining chairs, eating my food and watching my television. Everyone who has ripped up a house has horror stories and mine would take a day to tell. I’ve also worked with some phenomenal people but they took years to find, so there’s no way I’d go solo in a foreign country and I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone else either.

  It might be a challenge for us to let someone else control things but it comes with a promise to keep the project on budget, something I’ve yet to achieve on any renovation. Oh, who am I kidding? I’ve never been in the remote vicinity of a budget so I’m dying to discover this bit of sorcery. Now there’s no choice but to be sensible and frugal because once the money from the sale of our Canadian house is gone there’s no more tucked away in a bank in Switzerland (Revenue Canada, please be advised). Of course, what I’ve bitten off far exceeds my chewing ability, but what else is new? And, of course, I’m nervous about all this. It could be an absolute disaster. But it could also be a dream come true. Who knows? Either way I’ll be all right. If we get really short on cash I can always head up to a strip club in Dijon to audition for Stretch Mark and Cellulite Night. I could be wrong, but I think it’s the grey hair that’ll get me the gig.

  ESCARGOT MAIL

  Despite persistent rumours to the contrary, paper mail does actually still exist. There may even be a few people left on the planet who can write full sentences like, “My, that story is so funny,” known to anyone born after 1990 as LOL. While I appreciate technology as much as the next person, I do mourn the decline of letter writing. There’s something romantic about a well crafted letter. I think of the famous correspondence between Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning all those years ago and somehow Skype sex doesn’t quite have the same cachet.

  Certainly I’ve been up to my eyes in letters since arriving in France, but there’s not a shred of romance to be found in the lot. Letters to prove that I have been driving since I was 17, letters to and from banks and insurance companies, and the latest, letters to Orange, the major cellphone provider here. In order to get my account activated I had to mail contracts, passport copies, a letter from the bank and a cancelled cheque, so off to the post office I went. It was jam-packed so clearly not everyone is texting, emailing and ordering online 24/7. After consulting my handy phrase book, I confidently approached the counter, asked for an envelope and from there it went quite awry. She started talking top tongue, rapidly offering me all kinds of mailing options. I had no idea what to choose and I could hear the long line of people behind me sighing simultaneously. How the French must adore the millions of foreigners who descend upon them each year. I had no idea what to do so out of desperation I asked the woman behind me if she could help me. Again, my new life as a five-year-old.

  Now she was no dummy, this one. “Bien sûr Madame,” she said with a charitable smile. She quickly took all my papers and my pen and simultaneously passed all her post to the woman behind the glass. She filled out my envelope while chatting away with the post woman, passed mine through, took hers back and voilà, multitasking at its finest. I realize that by helping me she was speeding up the whole process for herself and everyone else but still, très gentille of her I think and at least I was able to thank her properly. But really it seemed like a huge endeavour to have to gather papers, drive to the post office and do the verbal tango to get such a simple job done.

  I now realize how my Canadian life has shaped a dependency on lightning fast transactions, everything from shopping to banking. Here, there’s no such thing as a bank teller, instead there’s a receptionist who arranges an appointment for you to meet with a banker for anything and everything. It sounds prolonged, and it is, and seems incredibly outdated to me. But maybe it’s not such a bad thing to be forced to slow down and actually sit with people face to face to discuss things in a civilized manner. It will take some getting used to and I’m not widely known for my patience, so we’ll see how it goes. I’m hoping I don’t have some sort of public “I’ve been waiting forever” episode that requires alerting the French authorities to a Canadian giraffe rampage. The only up side is it that once the police got there, I know they’d decide I wasn’t worth the four hours of paperwork.

  WRECKING OVARIES

  As for my own paperwork, the sale documents for the Wreck have been signed and the key has been handed over, which is quite amusing since the house has no back door. And so begins a seven-day cooling off period during which a mad scramble must ensue to determine if we can make it work within our modest budget. After the seven days are up there’s no turning back.

  Where shall I find the strength for this escapade? I’m still not recovered from my last renovation. I think my house in Canada was finished in the middle of July so that’s about three months ago. For some reason it feels like a fair bit has gone on since then. Oh yes, all that relocating to a foreign country business. I knew there was a reason why I feel as decrepit as this house. When I left Canada I swore up and down, literally, that there was no way I was getting into another renovation for at least a year or two and—stamping of feet now—maybe never again. It turns out I’m a homeowner and a liar.

  I’ll need all the guts and grit my little gonads can produce because I’ll admit that I’m more than a little anxious about this one. You’d think by now that I’d be able to do it in my sleep and intellectually, no problem. It’s the emotional part that gets me every time. The stress of upheaval, the long hours, the never ending choices that have to be made, not that a full day of deciding where to put electrical outlets isn’t a riveting and entertaining way to spend one’s time. I’m not a fan of mess and disorder and yet it’s the only consistent thing in my life. My shrink senses are tingling.

  I’m worried about money, appropriately so given my income situation. I’m worried about not being able to speak French during this whole ordeal. Suppose I ask for a gas furnace and end up with a pink toilet instead? I’m worried about being able to focus on getting my new job up and running. And I’m worried about the state of the union, the marriage that is. Many a renovation has led to a house divided.

  As inconvenient as it may be, there’s no one else to blame for all this agitation. I made this decision and, as I recall, at the time I was legally an adult. One of these days I’ll be grown up enough to realize that repeatedly choosing to live in a tornado has predictable side effects. But until then courage must be found and found tout de suite. Today is the first meeting at the Wreck with every artisan in Burgundy and by the end of it I know I will be dizzy. But I’m ready for this shit storm. The testosterone level will be in the red zone but I’m smack in the middle of PMS prime time. No wrecking balls required.

  ROOTLESS TREE

  I stole this title from one of my favourite Damien Rice songs that I’m listening to at top volume for a number of reasons. One, there’s lots of swearing in the song so that suits me just fine right now. Two, I am soothed very much by music, so that’s right on the money and three, I’m as tall as a tree and I can’t find
any roots to speak of. I’m moving. Again. Boxes and tape, hockey bags and a big white van. While I’m happy enough to move on to our more permanent residence (permanent being a relative term here), I am not digging this whole uprooting business. Etrochey has been so very kind to us and now I’m settled in with the cows and the chicken, lovingly referred to as Maxine, who has taken up permanent residence on our doorstep. I’m even making peace with the unknown creature that makes huge splashes in the river late at night.

  I find it hard to believe that six weeks have gone by already. Yet in a way it seems like we’ve been here for an eternity. We’ve managed to leap over many bureaucratic hurdles and somehow I’ve managed to get roped into buying a house here. I can hardly remember my house in Canada. At the same time it seems like we just got here and I’m wondering how we’ve managed to spread our tentacles out into every room of this vast country house. I thought we’d brought very little with us but I appear to be wrong (a rare event).

  I’ve moved too many times in my life and it’s wearing me down. Even now I know that this next place is just a stopover until The Wreck is finished, likely in April (only with divine intervention will that house be done in April) and then I’m at it all over again. The good news is that I stayed in this next house while on vacation last year so at least I know what I’m getting.

  So I say now with conviction, I am never moving again. No more will I taste the bitter packing tape as I rip it with my teeth because I’ve already packed every sharp object I own. No longer will I spend hours frantically trying to find the box that has the dental floss in it after eating a full rack of ribs at two in the morning. Never again shall I frighten the bejesus out of a sleeping husband by walking on sheets of bubble wrap on the four a.m. tinkle run. Non, nein, nyet. No one can make me. All right, one more time in April but after that no more. Once again I’m making plans and all I can hear is god laughing her ass off.

  NOVEMBER

  THE VIEW FROM HERE

  In spite of all my ranting about moving we were set up in the new digs in no time, another splendid house brought to me by the miracle of discounted winter rental rates. A man from Paris and his American wife, who illustrates children’s books at the table where I now sit, have lovingly transformed this little cottage into something truly marvelous. It boggles my mind as to how long it must have taken to put this place together. Nothing here, from the reclaimed painted floor tiles to the art nouveau armoires with their secret compartments, has been left to chance. Many years ago it was a functioning mill and the Armançon River runs literally right under the house, but I try not to think about that much. Everywhere I look there is something so Frenchy fine that I have to play Edith Piaf music all day just to complete the scene.

  Every time I discover yet another wonder here I have to give my head a shake to remember that, for now, this is where I live, that there’s no Monday morning at the hospital looming over my head and that makes everything, even moving, worthwhile.

  HELLO, GODBYE

  The French are professional protesters and take great pride in their ability to chant and march in the streets against the issue du jour. And their skill in organizing massive walkouts (as we saw when we first arrived) is matched only by that of the Italians. But amid all the disobedience there is plenty of civility to be found.

  Everyone knows about the kiss-kiss greetings here but what I didn’t realize was how important greetings in general are to the French. A benefit of living here is that I can now see all kinds of things that I didn’t while on vacation. Lately I’m taken by the custom of being greeted with a singsong, “Bonjour, Monsieur, Madame” whenever we walk in somewhere, then when we leave the obvious, “Au revoir, Monsieur, Madame.” I didn’t really think much of it until I went to a local doctor’s office for a flu shot.

  The waiting room door was closed and when I opened it I almost had a heart attack when everyone in the room sang out, “Bonjour, Madame” in unison. Then each time someone left to go into the doctor’s office they were sent off with a cheery, “Au revoir.” So I started paying close attention to this and sure enough, the same thing happens at the bank, the bakery, the stores, everywhere. It is a firm practice here and not once have I ever seen anyone enter or leave a place of business without offering an acknowledgment to everyone.

  I know it doesn’t sound like much but just imagine yourself walking into the Department of Motor Vehicles and singing out, “Hello, ladies and gentlemen,” or leaving Tim Hortons with a hearty, “Goodbye, everyone, have a nice weekend.” The place would be brought to a complete standstill with folks looking away uncomfortably and later laughing about the greeting fanatic they saw at the coffee shop that day. It’s simply not done.

  The French take many things seriously and salutations are no exception. Even when you clink glasses at the dinner table it’s important to make eye contact as you say, “Santé.” I’ve decided that I like it, a lot. I feel connected to people as soon as I walk in the door, like we’re in this whole waiting for bread mess together. Why doesn’t this happen in Canada I wonder? It’s bizarre because Canada, Newfoundland in particular, is generally a very friendly culture. We’re all in constant communication these days with our texting and twittering but we can’t even say hello to one another while we wait for one of our most shared experiences—having our bodies repaired. I’m not saying that the French have managed to maintain a politesse that the rest of the world has abandoned. I’m just saying that it’s lovely to have people say hello and wish you well on a regular basis.

  I think everyone should give it a go at least once. At your next checkup swing open the waiting room door, pause until you have everyone’s undivided attention and proudly call out, “Good day to you all.” I think it might be the only way to get doctors to do routine mental health screens.

  PREJUDICE AND PRIDE

  While all this fun in France has been unfolding, a middle-aged woman with enough letters after her name to make any mother proud has become a trainee. It seems like only yesterday I made big decisions and used big words like serotonin reuptake inhibitor. I carried a pager that went off with annoying regularity at three in the morning. But today all I had to worry about was whether the fridge smelled like a bucket of stinky French fromage or if the towels looked better folded neatly on the bed or the dresser.

  Yes, my long anticipated second career in vacation property management has begun. Over the past few weeks I’ve been job shadowing, otherwise known as working solely for the benefit of learning as I can’t legally be paid in France yet. I’ve had the distinct privilege of scrubbing toilets, laundering linens, disposing of garbage, dusting and de-cobwebbing several charming stone cottages in the Burgundy countryside. According to my first on-the-job-training evaluation I’m the best rookie they’ve ever had.

  I’m the only one they’ve ever had and it was a self-evaluation, but that’s beside the point. It seems my obsessive need for cleanliness, once at the top of Neil’s long list of Things That Annoy Me About My Wife, can now be officially moved to the special skills category on my CV. Is it the job of my dreams? Not on your life, but it is something worth doing. It may seem like I’m making fun of it but really I’m not. Sure, there wasn’t a life and death situation to be found, but I did feel a peaceful satisfaction, a small degree of pride even, in making houses ready to receive the weary in need of a vacation, something I believe to be as important to life as breathing or dark chocolate. Like everything, it’s all in how you see it. To me there’s something noble about cleaning. I never understand why the janitors and hotel maids of this world never get the respect or the pay or even the thanks they deserve. Add in the newly transplanted immigrant factor and it’s one of the toughest jobs out there. I certainly have a new regard for them.

  Of course there is one more chore to be done—my mother. Specifically, how to help soften her transition from mother of a semi-fancy physician to that of a very un-fancy charwoman. Again, perhaps it’s just a matter of perspective. Instead of mumbling,
“The tall one ran away to France to scrub toilets,” she could proudly say, “My elder daughter has decided to eschew the expected to pursue her dream abroad as an International Travel Facilitator.”

  For that matter, I suppose she could tell all her friends that I was the Canadian Cultural Attachée who has Sarkozy round for dinner twice a week. Who the hell would know the difference? I know for a fact that’s what my grandmother, called Mamie (coincidentally the French word for grandma), would have said. I remember her parading me around St. Patrick’s Mercy Home as The Doctor. I’m sure people thought that was actually my name. Every single time I went to visit her she’d tell everyone we saw that I was the best doctor in Canada who “ran” a big hospital in Halifax. This had the desired effect on all the other ladies who, as Mamie insisted, could never have produced such a clever grandchild. Who was I to contradict my elders?

  Anyway, for now, I think this work suits me just fine. So far, the hardest part is deciphering the labels on the bottles of cleaners. After so much responsibility for so long, it’s a tremendous relief to be concerned with small matters. The long-term plan for this venture is to become an extension of a not so small property rental and renovation business. But for the moment I’m at peace with my bucket and toilet brush and at the end of the day maybe that’s all any mother or Mamie could ask for. That being said, I suspect that wherever my beloved late grandmother is (hopefully somewhere that has plenty of chocolate and Belvedere cigarettes) she’s busy telling the tale of how I’ve taken up residence at the Palace of Versailles. If I happen to see her I’ll be sure to let her know that I have a new job. I’ll tell her I’m the President of France.