Finding me in France

by Bobbi French

  What in the name of all that is holy am I doing with that mess when he’s gone? I’ve heard stories about black water back-ups in the past, and let me be perfectly clear: if that sewage pump fails it’s all over. I shall have to go down with the ship because there’s no way that cave and I are coming face to face. Anyway, there’s not a moment to lose. I have to spend the next few weeks learning every phrase connected to every kind of disaster I can think of. First on the list: “Excuse me kind sir, there seems to be a river of sewage in my kitchen. Can you please send a biohazard team, and while you’re at it perhaps a nice pot of coq au vin?”

  JANUARY

  RING OUT

  THE OLD

  Another shiny new year. I suppose I should take a moment to reflect over the past year as the new one begins. And I would, if only I knew where to start. It’s not every year I leave behind a life that took 42 years to build, toss all reason out the window and set up a situation like the one I’ve got going on here. I started to make a list of all the things that have happened and I stopped halfway through because I was exhausted. Let’s just say 2010 has been somewhat eventful. Looking back on it now, it’s hard to put together how it all came about. One day I was sitting in the rounds room in a Canadian hospital and the next I was living in a medieval French town and cutting my own hair with an electric razor. It all happened so fast and now seems so far away, nothing more than a blur.

  Today as I walked past the Wreck, I realized that I couldn’t even remember everything I sold or gave away; all the unnecessary things that always seemed so important to have. Even now I know I have a few things packed away in boxes here but I couldn’t say exactly what. I hardly recognize myself anymore, a small town, silver-haired woman who eats pastry around the clock and asks her husband for money. There’s really no way to fully describe the impact of so much change at once. But I have to give myself credit, I’ve survived until this point. Three and a half months in, a bit banged up but still standing. I admit there are days when I think I’ve made a wrong turn but that’s only here and there, mostly at the pharmacy. All jokes aside, it hasn’t been easy but it has been interesting.

  I have no idea what this next year will bring, and that’s a good thing. If someone had told me last year what 2010 was about to bring, I would have been compelled to write them a prescription. The only thing I ask for is the ability to roll with it as it comes. I imagine if this year is anything like the last, I might need to be sedated. So I say to 2010, thank you for bringing me here and for carrying me this far. And to 2011, I say bring it on ya tricky bastard. I can take whatever you’ve got. Wrecks, toilets, verb conjugation meltdowns, raging rivers, expanding waistlines, a plague of locusts, you name the time and place and I’ll show up. I’m sticking with The Big French Adventure, no matter what. Fate, Destiny, did you hear what I said?

  Maybe if you aren’t too busy you can ask Lady Luck to stop by and see me.

  WRECK-O-RAMA

  Wreck-o-drama is more like it. Monsieur Bank has given his final word, a clearly enunciated, “Non.” In the end, they refused to finance our project as requested because it was considered too much of a risk. Anyone with eyes can see that I’m a risk in general but still, I can’t help but feel insulted. The rejection was based on a report by an independent evaluator sent from Dijon who took one look at the Wreck and politely requested that the Canadians kiss his derrière. The realtor, the property company folks and my neighbour, who’s been in Semur for over 30 years, all said they’d never seen this kind of evaluation done in France. Of course not. I move to France and all kinds of bizarre things come out of the woodwork: the coldest December in 40 years, the least amount of sunshine in 20 odd years and now novel methods of real estate obstruction. Coincidence? I think not.

  But it’s not all gloomy. As with almost every disappointment, there is a very sparkly silver lining here. After the slap from la banque we went back to our plans for the reno and discovered they were off everywhere by about two feet. Had we been given the go ahead we would’ve had a huge problem on our hands. The bottom line is the deal is dead, for now.

  Undaunted, we went back to the drawing table, literally, and spent every minute of the holidays reworking the design. The challenge here is for me, a giant North American, to live and work in 800 square feet with a husband without committing a homicide. I think we’ve finally arrived at a plan that preserves life, so now we have to start the whole process over from scratch. We have yet to meet with the second bank as the weather on Christmas Eve made country back road travel a death wish. To proceed with this new application we have to get all new quotes from the artisans, which will take weeks and weeks. All this is assuming that the Wreck will still be available and the lady from Paris will be willing to deal with us again.

  One of the many good things about France is that you can’t throw a rock without hitting a wreck. This week we are looking at more wrecks, continuing the quest for the original Wreck, as well as trying to figure out where the hell we’ll live in May if we don’t have a house by then. But the secret is that throughout this whole process something has not quite fit for me; something’s not right. For the first time in the ten years I’ve spent on a hobby that has come to feel like a second career, I found the whole design process tedious and even irritating. I resented having to spend any of my time on it. In between pastries I’ll have to take a long look at that one.

  Ah yes, the simple life. Freedom from commotion and complications. The quiet laid back pace that I’ve been seeking. As I’ve said before, it’s a sickness. Real Estateitis, Renovationosis, Wreckemia, more commonly known as same merde, different country.

  SKIN DEEP

  But let me say more about those red lesions all over my body. The ignore-and-hope-they- go-away strategy was surprisingly unsuccessful, so a trip to the dermatologist was inevitable. She’s right here in town with a very impressive setup I must say—a swanky office in her equally swanky house.

  I decided the way to go on this one was sans husband as translator because no matter how gentle her lighting scheme is, there’s no fun in having your better two-thirds watch an all over body surveillance from the sidelines. I told her I didn’t speak French very well. “Pas de problème,” she said and launched into the parlez-vous with alarming speed. Not that it mattered. There are only two dermatological outcomes, cream or cutting. So, when I heard a word that sounded like eczema, I knew which way it was going. As it turns out, the highly mineralized water, which leaves a thick white film over everything it touches, also causes many a foreigner to require her services. Well, she’s a genius, this one. The scaly red welts are almost gone thanks to cream number one and instead of looking like an alligator, I now resemble an oil slick, thanks to cream number two. Well worth the 66 euros that this little adventure set me—rather, the bread-earning husband—back.

  And speaking of skin, scales and being set back a few bucks, I can’t help but notice that my perfect face cream, found after a decade of trial and error, is down to the wire. Crème de la Mer has long been my only beauty indulgence and, at over two hundred bucks a jar, I’m pretty sure this one is my last. This is one frill for which I simply cannot ask my Monsieur to fork over the dough. I have always treated myself to it because I’ve never been a mani/pedi kind of gal, although I did have something waxed once. I figured one lady luxury still kept me in the low maintenance category. Not that I couldn’t benefit from a spa day. My hands say farming and my feet are too disgusting to even talk about. Perhaps I’ll embrace the bio-chic trend and start making my own cream with olive oil and river water. I am joking, of course, buttering bread is a chore for me. It’s likely that the million-dollar crème is nothing more than Vaseline with a shot of algae, but I’ll still miss it.

  The good news is that I did manage to catch that the dermatologist here does facial fillers. Vive la France. No Chinese food or video stores, but you can get your lips done up Mrs. Pitt perfect. My face will be flaking off but I’ll able to lick my lips and stick myse
lf to the windshield. I just know Big Red would be happy to pay a couple of hundred clams to see that one.

  DOLLARS AND SENSE

  People often ask me for advice about how to set fire to the cubicle and walk away from a fully formed life. The truth is, I don’t have a good answer. This is no how-to manual, simply the tale of one woman’s attempt to live a different life with no promise of a happy ending. To be sure my situation is unique; no kids, an EU passport and a ready and willing Rusty the Wonder Husband, all of which make this easier for me than it would be for most. But one thing I’ve learned is that transforming a life lived into a life wanted has a lot to do with money; specifically, finding a way to live without it.

  I don’t have any debt but only because I worked like a dog for 15 years to pay back the loan that bought me the stack of diplomas that are now collecting dust in my mother-in-law’s basement. While I don’t have a big wad of cash, I do have the proceeds from the sale of my house and everything that was in it. However, this won’t go far in France. Apparently, I’ve landed in the town with the most expensive houses in Burgundy. Of course I have. Anywhere else would have been downright sensible and that, it seems, is not how I roll. The secret so far is simply to spend less. Since September I have purchased French lessons, a portable player for language CDs, a sweater, a cure for red lesions, hair gel and, my big splurge, a few books for my Kindle. The only other expenses I have are insurance policies and one charity that I support monthly. Neil, god love him, pays for food, lodging and tampons.

  But the real trick is not to just to spend less, but to want less, and it’s not easy. I’m the kind of person who doesn’t want anything as long as I stay home. I never know I want grey suede boots until I see them walking past me on the feet of an impossibly chic French woman. I thought I’d be safe here in such a small town, and I was until I stumbled upon Amazon France. Oh very dangerous territory this. I now have access to everything like European boots, shoes and bags (freezing the credit card may be the only strategy here) and English books (burn the credit card), all with free delivery right to my river step. Now that I can actually get anything I want, I want one of everything. I’m pretty sure I don’t really need a gold sequined clutch purse, but that doesn’t change the fact that it could be here in three days, delivered by the post lady who speeds along the river on a bright yellow bicycle. Oh, sweet seduction. My rambling point is that this journey is all about tradeoffs. To make this work, I have to be willing to give up what I occasionally get duped into thinking I want. I just need to remember that Amazon doesn’t sell the experience of a lifetime and that’s what it’s all about. Words to live by I’m sure, but I just know that a tiara and black motorcycle boots would add a certain je ne sais quoi to the whole operation.

  THE COMPANY

  OF STRANGERS

  Here in Semur, under the 16th century Porte Guillier, there is an inscription: Les Semurois Se Plaisent Font En L’Acointance Des Estrangeres. Translated it means that the people of Semur take pleasure in meeting strangers. Since 1552. As far as I can tell they take it very seriously and they’re remarkably good at it. After over 400 years of practice, this shouldn’t come as a surprise. Before moving here, I was concerned about how we would be received and perceived. Maybe les Semurois would see us as boorish North American invaders rolling into town with big plans to buy up their land and erect a Wal-Mart. I was fearful of becoming local pariahs, shunned and isolated. I’d be forced to wander aimlessly through the streets in a tattered pink chenille bathrobe, randomly conjugating verbs and begging someone to have tea with me.

  It’s still early, but for the moment I think I can hold off on the woman-on-the-edge routine. We’ve been making small inroads into the Semur scene. We attended the annual town meeting where the mayor greeted us with style. The man bowed and kissed my hand, which is how I’ve decided all men should now receive me. We’ve even done some hosting ourselves. Neil served his very French lapin au vin to my French teacher Patricia and her friend Francis. We’ve been introduced to the très elegante Jacqueline, owner of the lingerie store who may convince me that bra shopping is not torture. And we’ve been invited to a dinner party where Monsieur Mayor himself will be in attendance. Word of the Canadian invasion is spreading.

  Whenever the townspeople ask us why we moved here, and they all ask, we rattle off the many things we like about Semur and they all seem so pleased that their town has somehow spoken to us. When we tell them how welcoming everyone has been they smile knowingly. “Of course,” they say, “this is our history.” That’s all fine for now, but once I start speaking French well enough for my foot to find its way back to my mouth, all bets will be off. History or no history, I know that robe is coming out.

  BUYER BEWARE

  Now here’s a fun Frenchy factoid. The French government is pretty sticky when it comes to sales. Say you owned a tacky tourist shop and wanted to slash prices on a boatload of Eiffel Tower key chains. Outside of specific time periods you’d have to ask for special permission and be prepared to participate in the national pastime here, administrative paperwork. There are even inspectors who randomly check les magasins to ensure they are red tag free. So, to avoid all that hassle, the shops put everything on sale during two periods of the year. From mid-January until mid-February, every store in France has their windows obstructed by huge banners saying SOLDES!! And the bargains are excellent, sometimes as much as 70 per cent off. Then they do it all again in June. It ends up creating a situation much like a big game hunt. People quietly stake out the stores, their eyes slowly surveying the lay of the land while honing in on their targets. They take mental notes and on sale day, move in for the kill. Here in Semur it’s a civilized affair, although I saw the situation in Paris on the news and I must say those Parisians really know the game.

  I try to imagine this in North America, Boxing Day and Black Friday every day for a month, twice a year. Lives would be lost, states of emergency declared, the National Guard and UN Peacekeepers marching in the streets. The hospitals would be filled with women recovering from scratching each others eyes out over a pair of Jimmy Choo shoes reduced by 60 per cent. Even my own sister would slay me if I got in her way on this one. But it doesn’t matter a row of beans to me now because unless it’s 100 per cent off, I’m not buying. I will admit it’s more than a little heartbreaking to know that everything in Paris, only a short train ride away, is being offered at rock bottom prices. In my former life I would have indulged in a little something, a pair of shoes, a scarf, maybe a new purse. All things I don’t need. But still, there’s always that at-that-price-it-would-be-irresponsible-not-to thinking, a trap I’ve fallen into many times before. And Neil, who has never paid full price for anything in his life, is often the one who drags me in. He once spent an hour convincing me that I was actually saving money by buying an outrageously expensive bag because it was on sale. I guess I was dazzled by his masculine logic because it’s currently in my closet. Now, unless it’s food or deodorant on sale, spending never equals saving. Oh, listen to me—so sensible, so wise, so above the material wars. Now that’s a laugh. If I had a paying job I’d be in full combat mode in the streets of Paris, head to toe camouflage, rifle in one hand, Visa in the other.

  I love the smell of Louis Vuitton in the morning.

  SPEAKING IN TONGUES

  Language update: I continue to suck. If I knew any French swear words, I’d say them, multiple times. Every time I think I’m making progress I get whacked in the forehead, hard and fast. Pharmacy woman is killing me. It was torture to see her even once after the whole vaginale debacle, but now every single time I go in she just happens to serve me. I ask for basic items in what in my estimation is perfect French and, as usual, she rapid-fires ten questions just above a whisper. Then she becomes impatient as I struggle for answers. I suspect she’s actually from Manchester and is deliberately trying to drive me to the brink.

  But the worst was a dinner party a few nights ago. This was a fairly upscale affair with eigh
t people in total, all talking at once in a large space with a distinct echo. Everyone was très chic and my nervous state was enhanced by the fact that the mayor himself was serving the foie gras with red wine and onion confiture appetizer. I sat up straight, smiled a lot and made several valiant attempts to interact like I normally would. Nothing, crickets. Then finally I heard the mayor say a word I recognized. Phoque. He was talking about the seal hunt. Now here was something. This is a topic that my people know well and will not be debated here. We know the truth about it, others don’t. End of story. Whether I was impassioned by my heritage or simply by a word that I actually recognized doesn’t really matter at this point. All I can say is that I got riled up (likely tame by French standards) and finished the whole thing off by referring to Paul McCartney as a total ignoramus. Oh, the queen of restraint, me.

  It was a beautiful party, but by the end I was all in and totally discouraged about the language. All I could think was I will never learn this mess well enough to secure a second invite anywhere. Intellectually I know all the right things to say to myself. These things take time. Assimilating to a new culture is one of the most difficult things to do. But I can’t stand being excluded from witty banter. I think the worst is when everyone bursts into raucous laughter and I’m sitting there wondering what’s so funny. It’s like showing up for the shindig only to have some snooty 18-year-old hostess say you’re not on the list.